All Fudged Up (A Candy-Coated Mystery)

by CoCo, Nancy

  “Oh. I thought you said we were booked solid from Memorial Day to the Fourth of July.”

  “The key words being were booked.” Frances sighed. “Word has gotten out about Joe Jessop’s murder. People don’t come to Mackinac for the excitement, they come to relax. I’ve had five regulars cancel this morning alone.”

  “Oh, no.” I frowned. “How do they find these things out?”

  “Regulars have a subscription to the Town Crier, and then there’s this whole social media business . . .”

  “Jenn is a wizard at social media spin. She’ll be able to help with that.”

  “She’d better get on it right away because Paige Jessop just announced that she will be building a brand-new hotel just north of the Grand. It’s slated to open Fourth-of-July weekend.”

  “What? Wait, there’s no way she can have a hotel built and operational in ten weeks.”

  “Her press release says she has a Chicago firm designing a Victorian hotel built with modern materials and methods. They build it off-site in a factory and put it together on island.” Frances clicked her mouse and brought up the news story on her computer along with artist’s renderings. “I’ve had two customers cancel their July reservations. They want modern and new.”

  “But they come to the island for the back-in-time feel,” I argued.

  “Not this new generation,” Frances said. “And there’s more news.”

  “All right.” I sat back. “Tell me.”

  “The historical society is demanding a tour of the place before you open to ensure your renovations are within the latest historical standards.”

  “Well, that’s an oxymoron, isn’t it? I mean, new historical standards?”

  “It’s not a joke.” Frances’s expression was grave. “They can demand changes to paint schemes, etc., and they can fine you up to ten thousand dollars.”

  “What? But Papa had the paint approved by the committee last fall.”

  “That was before Liam and Joe died. The committee has no connection to you.”

  “Because I’m not an islander,” I said. “Susan Goodfoot called me a fudgie. I tried to explain that I’m a McMurphy. That I spent my childhood summers on island with my grandparents, that I’m heir to the McMurphy, and that my family has been on island for one hundred and fifty years.”

  “Honey, it’s a tight-knit community. You have to give them time to accept you. If they ever do.”

  Mal whined and jumped up, begging to be let in my lap. I picked her up and snuggled into her soft fur. “There is only enough money in the funds Papa left me to go a full season if we are fully booked. There’s no room for fines or new paint schemes.”

  “Then you need to get to work,” Frances said.

  “Who’s the creeper nosing around the back of the McMurphy?” Jenn walked into the lobby from the back. Her checks were pink and her eyes sparkled. Her hair was still perfect and I envied her a bit. I mean, if I had just biked around the island my hair would be a tangled mess and my nose would be running.

  “That’s Pete Thompson,” I said. “He owns the B and B behind us.”

  “Oh, the guy with the pool house?” She poured herself coffee.

  “Yes, he wants to buy the McMurphy.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen.” Jenn added cream and sugar. “This island is beautiful.”

  “You biked the entire eight miles around?” Frances asked.

  “I saw Arch Rock and the woods and all of Main and Market Streets. I even parked my bike and did a sneak peak around the Grand Hotel. Those lawns are impressive. Several of the hotels with lawns have fire pits scattered around with lawn chairs and blankets. I can imagine sitting around a warm fire and toasting marshmallows.”

  Mal let up a loud whine. I covered her puppy ears. “Don’t say that in front of the puppy.”

  “Why not?”

  “Her full name is Marshmallow,” Frances said with a twitch around her mouth.

  “Yikes, my bad,” Jenn said. “Sorry, pup.”

  I took my hands off Mal’s ears and patted her. “She forgives you.”

  “Did you know they’re setting a foundation for someplace huge above the Grand?”

  I sighed. “Yes, Paige Jessop is building a new hotel with a Victorian theme.”

  “It’s going to have great views.” Jenn sipped her coffee.

  “And one hundred and fifty rooms.” Frances read from her computer screen. “A salon and spa, lawn tennis courts, Olympic-size pool, high-end restaurant with world-renowned chef Armond Calvarez.”

  “There’s no competing with that.” Jenn sipped.

  “Right?” I laughed at the absurdity of it all. “We have ten rooms, no lawn, but views of the harbor and Main Street.”

  “We have the world’s best candy maker in the lobby,” Jenn said. “Period décor that is actual vintage.” She waved her hand. “Fireplaces in all ten rooms, cool creaky floors, and access to a pool house where twentieth-century vacationers actually swam.”

  “Wow, you make it sound great.”

  “Because it is great,” Jenn said. “It’s all how you spin it.”

  “Tell that to the regulars who are cancelling bookings left and right.”

  “What? Why?”

  “They heard about Joe Jessop’s murder.”

  “How?” Jenn drew her eyebrows together, marring her perfect skin.

  “The Town Crier has an Internet subscription service,” Frances said.

  The phone rang. “The McMurphy Hotel and Fudge Shoppe. This is Frances speaking, how can I help you?”

  “Hello, Mrs. Zeiland.” Frances’s fingers clicked over her keyboard. “How are you? Uh-huh, and how’s Emily? Doesn’t she graduate from Northwestern? In two weeks? Wonderful, please tell her congratulations from us.” Frances made a note in the file to send a graduation card. “You’re most welcome. How can I help you today? Uh-huh, oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.” Frances shot me a look. “Is there anything we can do to change your mind? Okay, did you know we added Wi-Fi this year along with a coffee bar free of charge to our valued customers. Of course, we understand. I hope you do stop by when you’re on island and purchase some of our fudge.”

  I wrote a quick note and slid it to Frances.

  “Allie McMurphy is our new owner and is continuing the McMurphy fudge tradition with old favorites and a new line of fudges for adults based on the latest cocktail recipes.”

  Frances hung up the phone and typed in silence. My heart was heavy. The Zeilands were long-standing clients who usually booked a weekend a month during the high season.

  “How bad is it?” I asked.

  “They cancelled all four weekends,” Frances said. “They’re worried for the safety of their family and . . .”

  “And they want to try out the new Grander Hotel,” I finished.

  “Yes,” Frances said.

  “How much is that going to cost us?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Chapter 23

  “It’s going to cost twenty-five hundred dollars for materials to shore up the basement so that we can wall off the tunnel entrance,” Mr. Devaney said. “I will need to order the materials today to get them in next week.”

  “Can you have the project finished before Memorial Day?” I asked.

  “As long as I don’t put any time into any other projects.” His brown eyes were serious. “Unless you want to hire brick layers.”

  “How much would that be?”

  “I could get a few quotes, but they usually run fifty dollars an hour.”

  I tried not to wince. “We need to expand our security system to include the basement and possibly add cameras for all the public areas. Any idea how much that would cost?”

  “I’ll quote it, but my guess is at least two thousand dollars for an advanced system.”

  “Don’t forget the historical society,” Frances said. “They will want you to show them plans before you install anything. You can’t have anything that is too t
erribly obvious in a historical building.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Depends on how many friends you have on the historical society committee,” Frances said.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Well, I know how to help with that,” Jenn said. “Let’s plan a huge party for them. Maybe even a fund-raiser.” She rubbed her hands together. “We’ll serve cocktails and your new 21-and-over fudge flavors will be given as take-home treats.”

  “That’s certainly a start,” Frances said.

  “We’ll have to get all new plumbing before the party,” Mr. Devaney stated flatly.

  “Okay,” I said. “Plumbing, fudge, what else?”

  “Take an advert out in the Town Crier,” Jenn said. “Send a press release and let the local reporter get a preview tour.”

  “Advertising, right. What else?”

  “It never hurts to do things for the community,” Frances added.

  “Like what?”

  “Donate new park equipment.”

  “Help clean up park trails.”

  “Get involved in local societies.”

  They all spoke at once, and I tried to write it all down. “Okay.” I held up my hand to stop them. “And where am I supposed to get the time and money to do any of these?”

  “If you don’t make an effort, there won’t be a McMurphy,” Frances groused. “Is that what you really want?”

  “No.” I slumped in my chair. “Fine. I’ll take ideas on how to stretch our time and money resources.”

  There was a long drawn-out silence in my office. Mal stood up and stretched, then trotted over and licked my ankle under the flowing skirt of the shirt dress I wore.

  “You need a silent partner,” Frances said. “Someone who will help financially without taking over management of the McMurphy.”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice,” I said and put my chin in my palm, resting my elbow on my desk.

  “There is one person.” Jenn looked me straight in the eye.

  I sat up. “No, no, I said I wouldn’t, not unless I was in dire straits.”

  “Straits don’t get much more dire,” Jenn said. “I mean, there is only so much we can do without capital.”

  Frances and Mr. Devaney looked at us back and forth as if watching a tennis match.

  “No.”

  “Yes. You have to.” Jenn was firm.

  I closed my eyes. “Fine.”

  “Is there someone I should call?” Frances asked.

  “No,” I said. “This is something I need to do by myself.”

  “Good.” Jenn stood. “While you do that, we’ll make a plan. Frances, you make a list of things we can do for the community. Mr. Devaney, you make a list of things that must be done to ensure the remodel is completed and the extra security is installed and ready. I’m going to plan out the party and the Web site and social media.” Jenn gently shepherded the others out of the office. She grabbed the door handle, and as she closed the door she gave me a thumbs-up sign.

  I sighed and hit the speed dial on my phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mom, can I speak to Dad?”

  A Clockwork Tangerine Fudge

  4 cups dark chocolate chips

  4 tablespoons butter

  1 can sweetened condensed milk

  1 teaspoon vanilla

  1 packet Kool-Aid Tangerine Mix

  1 ounce rum

  1 ounce vodka

  Butter an 8” × 8” × 2” pan, then line with wax paper or plastic wrap. (I prefer wax paper.)

  Using a double boiler fill of the bottom pan with water and heat on medium high until the water is boiling. Then you can turn the heat down to low and in the top section, melt chocolate, sweetened condensed milk, and butter until smooth and thick.

  Remove from heat. Add vanilla and Kool-Aid mix and stir until combined. Add rum and vodka 1 tablespoon at a time (to taste). Mix well. Pour into pan. Cool. Tip: let cool outside of the refrigerator for 30 minutes so that no condensation mars the top. Refrigerate overnight. Remove from pan. Cut into pieces. Store in a covered container.

  Chapter 24

  “Well?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” I grabbed the coffeepot and poured myself fresh coffee. I turned and faced three people staring at me: Frances from her normal perch on the receptionist desk, Mr. Devaney from the chair beside her, and Jenn on the floor, playing with Mal. “What?”

  “Do we move forward or are you planning to sell to creepy Mr. Creeper next door?” Jenn sat back on her heels.

  “We move forward, of course.” I rolled my eyes.

  “What did you do?” Frances asked.

  “I called my father.” I winced—it was hard to think that I did indeed need his help and his money. I wanted to believe I didn’t, but at this point it was simply stubbornness on my part. “I convinced him to give me the money he has stashed for my wedding. Goodness knows if that will ever happen anyway. We now have an extra twenty thousand dollars. Will that help?”

  “It’s a start,” Frances said with a nod.

  “A good start.” Jenn got up and hugged me. “I know how hard that was. Good job.”

  “I don’t know how good.” I ran a hand through my hair and tugged. “But it was definitely a job.”

  “Why didn’t you just get a bank loan?” Mr. Devaney asked, drawing his bushy brows together. “You’ve got collateral in the building.”

  “That’s what I thought,” I said. “But it turns out banks are much pickier with loans these days. I didn’t have enough credit even with the collateral and my solid business plan.”

  “Did you try off-island banks?” Frances asked.

  “Everything from here to Chicago, including a few credit unions.” It was embarrassing to let my staff know how dire our straits really were, but if they were going to be part of my team, then they needed to know just how good or bad things were.

  “Well, you don’t need to pay me,” Jenn said. “All I need is a place to crash for the summer and a good reference.”

  “They do a lot of weddings on island,” Frances said. “If you’re serious about event planning, that would be a great angle to start.”

  “Wait! That’s awesome. We could use the McMurphy to book wedding parties. We could set up a plan where for a discount, parties could buy out the entire hotel. We’ll become a destination wedding hotel.”

  “And fudge shop,” I said.

  “And fudge shop,” Jenn added.

  “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I expect to get paid for my work,” Mr. Devaney said firmly.

  “And you will be,” I said. “I have funds now to get us through a season even if we don’t book all the rooms.”

  “What did you have to do in exchange?” Frances blinked through her glasses.

  “Besides give up my dream of a big wedding?” Okay so sarcasm didn’t really work on people who were contemplating working without pay. “I promised to spend the holidays in Detroit with Mom and Dad.”

  “The holidays as in Christmas Day and New Year’s?”

  “As in, one weekend a month and the entire months of December and January,” I said. Three pairs of eyes looked at me, stunned. “I know it sounds like a lot, but I’ll use the time to craft new fudge recipes and drum up business. Besides, lots of business owners aren’t here on the off-season.”

  “What weekend a month?” Jenn asked. “When does that start?”

  “The second weekend of the month and it starts in June. So I’ll be here for the rest of the new opening prep and then for Memorial Day, Independence Day, and Labor Day.”

  “What about the lilac festival and the horse festival and all the other festivals?” Frances asked. “Those are not acceptable terms.”

  “We turn a big enough profit this season and I’ll pay my parents off. Once I’ve done that, then I don’t have to continue with the visits.”

  “Incentive,” Jenn said. “I like that. Come on then, l
et’s get our plans together. We have work to do, people.”

  “I don’t understand it.” I looked up from the accounting books. It was late at night. Jenn was in her nightgown, her hair wrapped in a towel. She painted her toenails grape while Mal curled up beside her on Papa’s old couch.

  “What?”

  “Pete is right. The McMurphy hasn’t made a profit in decades.”

  “But your Papa Liam had no problem keeping it going and even left you money when he died.” Jenn looked up from her work.

  “I know, and it shows at least one solid entry every month in the bank account.”

  “What kind of solid are we talking about?”

  “Ten grand,” I said.

  “That’s pretty solid. Was your grandfather into something illegal?”

  “I highly doubt it.” I frowned. “Seriously, Grammy would have killed him.”

  “I think I would have loved your grandmother. She certainly sounds like a strong woman.”

  “She had to be to keep Papa in line.” I pursed my mouth and scrunched it to one side. “So where do you think he got the money?”

  “Maybe there really is buried treasure in that tunnel,” Jenn said. “Didn’t you say there was another door down there?”

  “Yes, but it didn’t look like it had been opened in years.”

  Jenn went back to painting her nails. “Did you ever figure out what that tunnel might have been built for? I mean, the twenties were well past the need for an underground railroad, right?”

  “Right.” I turned to my computer and did a search for keywords of “Mackinac” and “tunnels.” It popped up a story of a little boy who was killed when a snow tunnel fell in on him. “Tragic.”

  “What?”

  “Some poor kid lost his life five years ago when he tried to make a snow tunnel. It wasn’t stable and it fell in on him.”

  “Sad.”

  I continued to peruse the articles that popped up. Nothing was earlier than 1995. So I tried again, searching with the words “historical” and “1920s.” There it was plain as day. “Oh, I would never have guessed,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I bet that tunnel was created to move smuggled goods onto and off the island.”