Oh, Fudge!

by Nancy CoCo

  “She keeps her purse locked in a file cabinet.”

  “Unfortunately keys are very easy to copy these days,” Brent said. “You need to keep that in mind.”

  “You mean the whole wax mold thing?”

  “No, now they have software that can recreate a key from a photo of it,” he said.

  “Wow, that’s not good for me and the McMurphy. We use the old-fashioned keys for our guest rooms.”

  “I know it has charm, but I’d suggest you get a computer system with the magnetic cards for the safety of your guests.”

  I sighed. My money was going to go to a major roof overhaul this fall after the season. To add a new keying system would make things even more expensive. I needed that tour group for the event.

  “I’ll see you,” I said and headed down the street. I made a quick cell phone call to Frances. “Frances, where can you go to get new keys made on the island?”

  “There’s only one place,” she said. “McGregor’s Hardware Store on Market Street. Why?”

  “Someone got into the Butterfly House searching for something. Then we went to Mrs. Gilmore’s home and she found things stolen as well. We suspect someone copied her keys.”

  “Do you think this has anything to do with the murder?”

  “There’s no real link yet,” I said. “But it seems odd that around the time of the murder, someone was searching for something at the Butterfly House and now things have been stolen from Mrs. Gilmore. The thing is . . .”

  “What?”

  “They didn’t take the expensive butterflies. Mrs. Gilmore told me those butterflies were the most expensive thing in her office.”

  “That is interesting. I wonder what else they were looking for? Do you think Barbara caught them in the act and they killed her?”

  “There’s a chance,” I said. “The killer could have already been in the Butterfly House when Mrs. Gilmore opened it. We didn’t check the shed until today so it could have been tossed that day.”

  “Why didn’t they check the shed? I mean they should have cleared the entire area when they processed it.”

  “Apparently they thought they had the killer.”

  “You mean Victoria.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Listen, I’m going to the hardware. Do we need anything?”

  “Some WD-40, the guests told me today that the closet door in two-zero-one has a squeak and Douglas mentioned he was out of the good stuff.”

  “Okay, tell him I’ll pick it up.”

  “You’re going to ask about the keys, aren’t you?”

  “You know me too well,” I said and smiled. “See you soon.”

  Could it be as easy as asking who made a copy of Blake’s keys?

  California Mission Fig and Fudge Cookies

  Ingredients

  2 eggs

  2 cups sugar

  1/2 tsp. vanilla

  4 tbsp. of butter, melted

  9 tbsp. of cocoa powder

  ¾ cup of flour

  1 tsp. baking powder

  dash of salt

  16 dried California Mission Figs—divided,

  8 chopped, 8 thinly sliced

  ½ cup powdered sugar

  Directions

  In a large bowl, whisk eggs, granulated sugar, and vanilla until lemon yellow. Slowly add melted butter. Then sift together cocoa, flour, baking powder and salt—add to egg mixture along with 8 coarsely chopped figs. Beat until smooth. Chill until firm.

  Use a tablespoon to scoop out dough—roll into a ball and roll ball into powdered sugar. Place on parchment-lined cookie sheet. Garnish with a thin slice of fig. Bake at 325 for 15 minutes. Cool on baking sheet and dust with additional powdered sugar. Serve.

  Chapter 10

  “I’ll be with you in a minute,” a gruff voice said from the back corner of the hardware store when I entered.

  “Okay,” I answered and searched the aisles until I found the WD-40 and then went back to the key-cutting area.

  “Can I help you?” an older man with a thick mustache and gray hair asked. I had a moment of pause because he sort of looked like that old cowboy actor Sam Elliott. He wore a denim shirt and jeans.

  “Hi. Yes,” I said and tried to remember what I was doing. “Um, I have a question about keys.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m Allie McMurphy from the Historic McMurphy Hotel.” I held out my hand.

  “Ian McGregor,” he said and shook it. “You have the look of your grandma Alice.”

  “Thanks.” I smiled. It was hard to think straight. He had that sort of masculine aura about him.

  “You wanted to know about keys?”

  “Oh yes,” I said and felt the heat of a blush rush over my cheeks. “Do you make keys from wax mold copies?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, um, okay. What about 3D printed keys. Do you copy those?”

  “I suppose we could, but I’ve never had that come up. What’s this all about?”

  “Someone burglarized the Butterfly House and Mrs. Gilmore’s home, but there’s no sign of a break-in. We think her keys might have been copied. Did anyone come in and make a new set of keys in the last week?”

  “We make keys all the time, young lady.”

  “Oh.”

  “All the hotels and bed and breakfasts on the island use old-fashioned keys. You’d be surprised how often keys get lost. Don’t they get lost or accidently taken home at your place?”

  “Yes,” I said with a frown. “But these would be home keys.”

  “Uh-huh, and what do the keys to your rooms look like?”

  “House keys,” I said and tapped my chin. “I see the predicament. Let me ask you this. Has Sean Grady come in and made any keys lately?”

  “He came in three days ago and made a set for his grandmother. Why?”

  “No reason,” I said. “Thanks. All I need is this WD-40.” I handed him the oil and he walked me to the register.

  “Wait. You don’t think he copied Mrs. Gilmore’s keys, do you?” he asked and rang up my purchase.

  “I intend to find out,” I said and paid him. “Thanks for the information.”

  “Keep me posted,” he said as I walked away. “His grandma has dementia and loses her keys at least once a week. If he’s copying keys that aren’t his, I need to know.”

  “I’ll keep you posted.”

  I had to get back to the McMurphy for a fudge making demonstration. Then I was going to pay Mr. Sean Grady a visit.

  * * *

  “You can’t just go up to Sean Grady and ask him if he’s been taking things from people’s homes,” Frances said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because he might panic at getting caught and hurt you,” Jenn said.

  We stood around the reception desk. The demonstration had been a hit and we had sold quite a bit of fudge. Now Sandy was using the kitchen to put together her latest piece for The Island House Hotel.

  “I’ll bring Mal,” I said. The pup perked up at the mention of her name and came over to jump up to beg for attention.

  “I have a better idea,” Frances said. “Go see Grady’s grandma.”

  “But she has dementia,” I said. “At least that is what the hardware guy said so it has to be true. The island is too small to keep a lie for very long.”

  “Go visit her,” Frances said. “Ask her about the keys. You never know. She might give you enough information that you can take it to Rex and have him confront Grady.”

  “Okay, I guess that makes the most sense.”

  “Take Mal,” Jenn suggested. “Puppies can lift the spirits of people with memory problems.”

  “I will,” I said. “I’ll take Mrs. Grady a basket of fudge. I’ve found bribes often help, too.”

  “Here’s her address,” Frances said and pushed a note toward me. “Don’t stay too late or Grady might get suspicious.”

  “I won’t,” I promised, then ran upstairs, changed out of my candy making polo and black slacks, put on a sundress,
combed my hair and fixed my ponytail, then leashed Mal, and headed out.

  Mrs. Grady lived in a tiny cottage by the airport. I opened the short, picket fence gate and walked up to the door with a basket of fudge in my hands. I knocked and could hear someone moving about inside. An elderly lady pulled her lace curtain aside and looked out at me. I waved. “Hello. We brought fudge.”

  Her gaze went to Mal who stood on her back legs and waved her front paws.

  There was some more noise as she came over to the door and opened it a crack. “Who are you?”

  “Hi, I’m Allie McMurphy. I run the McMurphy Hotel and Fudge Shop,” I said. “You used to know my papa Liam.”

  “Papa Liam?” Her voice was weak and shaky. “You mean Liam McMurphy?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Can we come in?”

  “I’m not supposed to let strangers in,” she said.

  “Oh,” I said. “Yes, I understand. I brought you fudge.” I held the basket up and the crack between the door and the jamb widened. “Can you come out and talk with me?”

  She opened the door wide enough to take the fudge. “I can’t leave the porch.”

  “We can sit on your lovely swing,” I said and pointed to the porch swing. “Mal would love to show you her tricks. I imagine you could use a little company.”

  She was silent for a moment and then seemed to make a decision. Her chin rose as if in defiance of the rules she lived under. “I’ll be right out. Wait for me.”

  “We will,” I said.

  I sat on the creaky old porch swing. The house clearly needed to be painted. The chain on the swing was rusted and the swing itself was peeling. I wondered if her grandson even thought about caring for the house. But then I couldn’t judge. It was my understanding from listening to the seniors at the senior center talk that taking care of someone with dementia was a full-time job and I knew that Grady worked at the cable company as well.

  Mal sat under the swing in the spot of shade. Soon Mrs. Grady came out with two glasses of cold lemonade in her hands. She was a tiny woman, slightly bent from osteoporosis. She wore a cotton flowered blouse and a striped skirt. On her ankle was a monitor. Her feet were stuffed into slippers.

  “I hope you like lemonade,” she said and handed me a glass before she sat down beside me. I took the glass and held the swing as she settled down beside me in a cloud of White Shoulders perfume. I recognized the scent because my Grammy Alice used to wear it.

  “I do. Thank you,” I said. “Cheers.” I lifted my glass to her and made a small toast. Then took a sip. It was so sour, I had to turn away until my eye quit scrunching. “Yum,” I choked out and put the glass on the porch rail.

  “So, you are Liam’s daughter,” Mrs. Grady said.

  “His granddaughter,” I corrected. “My dad is Papa Liam’s only child.”

  “I didn’t know he had a daughter. I thought he only had that boy of his. Big britches that one. Thought he was too good to live on the island.” She sipped her drink and didn’t seem to have any trouble with the flavor. “Lives in Detroit now, I hear.” She looked at me. “You look like your mother.”

  “Grand—” I paused. “Thank you.”

  “So how are your parents?”

  “They are gone now.”

  “Where’d they go?” Her blue eyes crinkled in misunderstanding. Her gray hair was short and curled.

  “On vacation,” I said.

  “Funny to go on vacation when we live on the perfect vacation spot,” she said and took another sip of lemonade.

  I wondered if I would be able to get any information out of her that was accurate. Mal jumped up in my lap and smiled at the old woman.

  “Well, who’s this?” she asked and patted Mal’s head.

  “This is Mal,” I said. “Mal, this is Mrs. Grady.” Mal held up her paw for a shake.

  “Well, look at that,” Mrs. Grady said and shook Mal’s paw. “Clever doggie.”

  “Would you like to see her tricks?”

  “She does tricks?”

  “Sure.” I put Mal down and ran her through her tricks of up, twirl, sit, shake, sit pretty, down, and roll over. Then I slipped her a treat. Mrs. Grady laughed and clapped.

  “Wonderful,” she said. “So, Miss Allie McMurphy, what really brings you out to visit an old woman?” Her eyes were suddenly clear and bright. It made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

  “I was wondering about your house keys,” I said. “Mr. McGregor at the hardware store tells me that your grandson Sean has to make new keys for you nearly once a week. Where do all those keys go?”

  “I don’t lose my keys,” she said and frowned. “I’m not allowed to leave the house so why would I carry keys?”

  “You have a leg monitor,” I said gently. “Do you wander off?”

  “One time,” she said with a sigh. “I got a pail and went berry picking like we did as kids and couldn’t find my way back out of the woods. Sean got the monitor. He said it was for my own good. I’m on house arrest.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” I said. “It must get lonely. If you want, Mal and I can come over more often.”

  “Why would you?” she asked with a knitted brow. “Don’t you have a fudge shop to run?” Her blue eyes had glazed over a bit.

  “I do,” I said and stood. “Mal and I like to take walks every day. We can swing by here once a week if you don’t mind.”

  “The doggie will come?” she asked and gave Mal pats on the head.

  “Yes,” I said. “But we have to go now. Thanks for the lemonade.”

  She stood. “I can’t be outside.” She picked up the glasses and we watched her go into the house. I heard the scrape of a lock and, knowing she was secure, I left.

  I wasn’t sure if anything she told me was accurate. She seemed to have lucid moments. And she was right; if she was not allowed to leave the house, why would she lose her keys? It was a question for Sean.

  “Hey, who are you and what are you doing here?” a man in his early thirties asked me as I closed the picket gate behind me.

  “Oh, do you live here?”

  “Yes, in the carriage house. My grandmother is not allowed to speak to strangers,” he said and frowned at me. “She has dementia.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said and held out my hand. “I’m Allie McMurphy.”

  He looked at my hand but didn’t take it. His arms remained crossed. He had a plastic grocery bag in one hand and fisted the other. “You’re that girl who keeps finding dead people.”

  “I guess you could say that,” I admitted and Mal jumped on her back legs and twirled to try to impress him. “Are you Sean Grady?”

  “What if I am?”

  “I heard you install cable,” I said and tried to act innocently. “I own the—”

  “McMurphy,” he finished for me. “Are you having cable problems?”

  “One of the guest rooms may need to be rewired,” I said. It wasn’t a lie. Room 205 had spotty cable. “I wondered if you can give me a quote.”

  “Oh.” He adjusted his stance to a more relaxed position. “Sure. I charge fifty dollars an hour. Only one room you said?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “I could probably do it in two hours so about a hundred dollars would do it.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I can’t do it right now, but I definitely plan to fix it once the season is over.” I stepped around him. “It was nice to meet you.” Mal took the hint and pulled me down the sidewalk.

  “Call me if you need it sooner. It’s best to get it done sooner rather than later.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said over my shoulder. Mal and I made our escape down the sidewalk back to the safety of the McMurphy. If Sean was copying keys and breaking into homes, I didn’t want him anywhere near the McMurphy. Not that we had anything valuable enough to steal. But I wanted to make sure to keep my guests safe. I didn’t want anyone to end up like Barbara Smart.

  Chapter 11

  “
It doesn’t prove anything,” Rex said. He sat behind his desk and shook his head at me. “The fact is Mrs. Grady has Alzheimer’s. There’s no predicting what they will do from one moment to the next. She might take the keys and hide them from Grady out of spite for being left alone in the house.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Seriously, you need to look into this. Has there been a string of robberies lately?”

  “One or two,” he said with a shrug. “You get them with so many people packing into the island. The locals tend to leave their doors unlocked.” He held up his hand before I could speak. “Which means there isn’t much reason for Sean to copy the keys anyway.”

  “But you will look into it, won’t you?”

  “I will look into it,” he said with a nod. “If Sean Grady is stealing from people, I’ll bring him in and prosecute to the highest level.”

  “It should be simple to figure out,” I said. “Just overlap a map of where Sean worked and where the latest burglaries took place. If they overlap, that should be enough cause to bring him in.”

  “Are you telling me how to do my job?” He tilted his head and gave me a look.

  “I—no,” I said. “No, I’m not telling you how to do your job. I just think that you should at least talk to Sean. Something is fishy when a guy copies a set of keys a week.”

  “I’ll talk to him, but he hasn’t broken any laws. Not that I can prove anyway.”

  “I’d talk to him, but he didn’t seem like the type to talk things through with.”

  “Allie, stay out of it, okay? For your own safety.”

  “But someone broke into Mrs. Gilmore’s home and took her diamond rings. That same someone may have broken into the Butterfly House and murdered Barbara Smart. It seems to me that Sean Grady is your best suspect right now.” I paced in front of his desk.

  “Oh, I see,” he said and crossed his arms, leaning back into his chair. “You think Sean murdered Barbara.”

  “Yes,” I said and stopped in the middle of the room. “He could have been in the middle of a burglary and Barbara caught him. So he killed her. I mean, it takes a lot of force to stab someone to death with a garden trowel.” I made a stabbing motion with my arm then stopped. “Hey, has Shane looked at the direction of the wound? I mean, can’t he tell the height of the killer by the entry wound?”