by Nancy CoCo
“Two grand is—”
“Not that much money for that kind of exposure. Think about how business has picked up since that cooking show.”
I looked at my computer screen. Our online fudge sales had doubled. We only had a limited amount of rooms to rent so we were turning people away. “It has been good for business,” I mused.
“And you want to keep up the exposure,” she advised.
“But we are already running to capacity. Any more orders and I’ll have to stop making batches by hand and start farming it off to a factory.”
“Why would that be bad?” Jenn frowned at me, confused.
“Because we are known for our handmade fudge,” I said. “Anyone can make fudge in a factory. We make fudge in the kitchen by hand.”
“So hire in another candy maker and start another shift,” she said. Then she hopped down and planted her hands on my desk. “The Old Tyme Photo Shop and all the others on this side of Main are pitching in for the exterior shots. You don’t want to lose to the other side.”
“What other side?”
“The other side of Main.” Jenn waved her hand and straightened. “People will be counting on your support tonight.”
“No pressure,” I muttered sarcastically and rubbed my hands over my face. “If I do this, I’ll have to take the money out of the roof remodel fund. That means we would not have the patio roof for events next year.”
“They are both long-term investments,” Jenn pointed out. “But I think this television show has a chance to really take off.”
“Why?”
“It’s starring Dirk Benjamin,” she said with an exaggerated sigh.
“Dirk Benjamin?”
She jumped up and pulled out her phone. “Yes, you know, he did that made-for-TV movie about broken hearts where the older guy has Alzheimer’s and the older woman falls for the younger handyman. . . .”
“I don’t watch much TV,” I said.
“Oh, you know him,” she said. “I’ll pull up his IMDb page.” She flipped through some screens on her phone and then turned it toward me. “See?”
On the screen was a headshot of a very handsome man. I swore there was a twinkle spot of light coming off his teeth. “He is nice looking.”
“He’s more than nice looking,” she said and turned the phone back toward her. “He is the latest ‘it’ guy for the small screen. He’s been slotted to play the local police detective. There is no way this pilot won’t take off.”
“So wait, that guy is playing Rex Manning?” I chuckled at the idea that a young Hollywood actor with so much hair and a toothy smile would be playing Rex. Rex Manning was rougher around the edges, with a bald head and with more of an action movie guy looks than romantic hero looks.
“Well, not exactly,” Jenn said. “The series is about a Mackinac Island writer. You know, an updated version of Jessica Fletcher. She finds clues to murders and he steps in to arrest people.”
“Oh boy, I bet Rex loves that idea,” I said. Rex wasn’t very happy with my meddling with his investigations. I highly doubted he would be happy about a television show depicting the Mackinac Island police as needing an old woman’s help to solve crimes.
Jenn smirked. “Rex hates it. I heard that Dirk is shadowing Rex for the next two weeks to get a feel for how he does his job.”
That thought made me laugh. “Okay, now I have to call Rex and see how he’s taking it.” I picked up my phone.
“Before you call”—Jenn interrupted—“are you in for the two thousand?”
“I don’t think so,” I said with a shake of my head. “The pilot could get made and not picked up or even shown to anyone for years. I think I’ll keep my roof improvements.”
Jenn stuck out her bottom lip in a pout. “Sad. I think your neighbors aren’t going to be too happy.”
“We just can’t do everything,” I said with a shrug. “They are business owners. They’ll understand.”
* * *
Later that afternoon I took Mal out for her afternoon walk. We went out the back of the McMurphy and across the alley to Mal’s favorite patch of grass.
“Allie.” Mr. Beecher called my name. Mr. Beecher was an elderly gentleman who wore three-piece suits and walked twice daily around the island. He reminded me of the snowman narrator from the Rudolph stop-action television show. Or more specifically, he reminded me of Burl Ives.
“Hello, Mr. Beecher. How are you today?”
“I’m well, thanks,” he said. “I hear that you aren’t going to put in for the pool to get the television show to shoot your side of the street.”
I sent him a weak smile. “Word travels fast around here.”
“You’ve got some folks up in arms over it,” he said, reached into his pocket, and took out a small treat. Mal raced over and did her tricks for him. “I told them that you were entitled to spend your money as you saw fit.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m saving up to remodel the rooftop. It will make a great space for weddings and bridal showers and other kinds of parties.”
His eyes twinkled. “Like I said, you are entitled to spend your money as you see fit. I think your grandfather would be proud of what you’ve done with the place.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I wish Papa were here for my first season, too.”
“What’s our little friend up to?” he asked and pointed out that Mal was sniffing around the side of the Dumpster two buildings down.
“Mal,” I called. “What are you doing? Get over here.” I clapped my hands. Mal refused to come. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Sometimes she can get really stubborn.”
“Do take care. They like to put poison out by the Dumpsters to keep the rats away.”
“Oh no.” My heart rate sped up. I don’t know what I would do if Mal got poisoned. I hurried down the alley to the Dumpster, calling her name. “Mal. Mal, come here, girl.” It wasn’t rat poison she was sniffing around, but a pair of men’s tennis shoes . . . with the person still wearing them. “I’m sorry,” I said and pulled her off the man. “She has never met a stranger.”
The guy was half sitting, half lying down against the side of the building. His head rested against the Dumpster, a hat covering his face as if he needed a nap and wanted to keep the sun out. He didn’t make a sound. I froze.
“Is he sleeping?” Mr. Beecher asked as he rounded the Dumpster.
“Oh boy,” I said, noting the dirty jeans and torn sweatshirt he wore. “Hello? Sir?” I reached down and jiggled his shoulder. The hat popped up and revealed brown eyes wide open, but opaque, staring at nothing. “Sir?” I put my hand on his neck to feel for a pulse, but one touch let me know he was dead. The body was cold.
I straightened; my nerves were on edge. Mal wiggled in my arms. Mr. Beecher stuck his hands in his pockets and whistled.
“So you’ve found another dead man,” he stated.
“I think so,” I said and fumbled for my phone. “Do you recognize him?”
“He sort of looks like Jack Sharpe,” Mr. Beacher mused, tilting his round head to get a better look at the body. “Of course, Jack is a better dresser.”
“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?” Charlene’s voice was clear on the other end of the phone.
“Hi, Charlene, it’s Allie.”
“Oh, dear me, who’s dead now?” She sounded pained.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m in the alley behind Main Street . . .” I stepped back to look at the store names stenciled on their back doors. “Behind Doud’s Market and Mackinac Gifts.”
“I’ll send Rex out,” she said. “But he isn’t going to be happy.”
“I’m not responsible for making Rex happy,” I replied.
“That’s not what I hear.” Charlene chuckled. “I’ve sent a text out to Shane as well to get CSI over there. There is a dead body, right?”
“Yes,” I said solemnly. “But just because I call you doesn’t automatically mean someone died.”
“Honey, the only
time you ask for help is if someone dies,” she pointed out. “Are you alone?”
“No, Mr. Beecher is here, too.”
“Well, good. Who found the body?”
“Mal did,” I answered.
“That pup has a nose for the dead,” Charlene said.
In the distance I heard the sound of sirens. The alley wasn’t very far from the administration building where the ambulance and police were housed. The ambulance was one of the only motor vehicles allowed on the island.
“I hear them coming,” I said into the phone. “Thanks, Charlene.”
“Take care, Allie.”
“Well, this certainly is an interesting turn of events.” Mr. Beecher kept his hands in his pockets and bent over to peer at the body. “I wonder what killed him?”
“Let’s hope it wasn’t foul play,” I said and held Mal securely in my arms. Movement caught the corner of my eye and I turned to see Rex come striding down the alleyway with a tall, impossibly handsome man behind him.
“Allie, Mal, Mr. Beecher.” Rex acknowledged us all but didn’t introduce the man with him. He turned to the body. “You reported him dead?”
“Yes,” I said. “Mal pointed him out and we thought he was sleeping. So I knelt down and shook him to wake him up, but he was stiff and cold.”
“Wow, a real dead guy. Just like that . . . in the alley,” the handsome man said and ran his hand through his mass of blond hair that was thick and glossy.
“Hello,” Mr. Beecher said and stuck out his hand. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Right. Dirk Benjamin,” the man said and shook Mr. Beecher’s hand. “You’re Beecher?”
“Mr. Beecher,” he replied.
“The man is definitely dead,” Rex said, interrupting. He knelt beside the body and used his pen to pull the hat off the dead man’s head. There was blood and gunk on the inside of the hat.
Dirk Benjamin turned very pale. “Is that like brains?”
“Yes.” Rex answered, his mouth a grim line. Dirk turned and got sick on the other side of the Dumpster. “Amateurs . . .”
I looked from the hat to the dead man’s head and saw that he had a bullet hole right above the eyes.
“I’m thinking it was foul play,” Mr. Beecher said out loud.
“Do you think?” Rex muttered sarcastically.
The ambulance cut its sirens as it crept along the alley toward us. George Marron got out of the vehicle. “Mr. Beecher, Allie,” he said. “What happened?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Mr. Beecher said.
“Did either of you hear gunshots last night?” Rex asked as he stood.
“No,” I replied. “Mal would have barked.”
“It might be a body dump,” George said as he squatted down to take a look. “There’s not a lot of blood here.” He squinted up at us, his dark black gaze serious. “Probably killed somewhere else and moved here.”
“Why here?” I asked.
“People know you walk this alley,” Rex said. “And with your reputation.”
“What reputation?” I put one hand on my hip and held Mal with the other.
“Of finding dead men,” George said.
“Mal finds them,” I pointed out. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“They probably killed him then brought him back here, posed him to look like he was sleeping, and left him here for you to find.”
“Are you sure he didn’t kill himself?” Mr. Beecher asked.
“No gun around,” Rex said, taking in the scene.
“It could be under the Dumpster,” I pointed out.
“Jack Sharpe was right-handed,” George said. “The Dumpster is on his left.”
“So it is Jack Sharpe,” Mr. Beecher said. “I thought so.”
“I’m going to have to rope off the crime scene until Shane can get here,” Rex said. “George, take a look at Mr. Benjamin. He lost his breakfast and might be in shock. Allie, keep Mal away from the body. You and Mr. Beecher should go sit on the steps to your apartment until I can square away the scene.”
“Yes, sir,” I muttered.
“Come on, Allie.” Mr. Beecher took my elbow in his hand. “This is the best adventure of my life.”
“Well, Mal and I wish it wasn’t a normal occasion in ours,” I said as we scooted past the ambulance. Dirk Benjamin sat on the back of the ambulance. George had draped him in a blanket and was checking his pulse. I remembered seeing my first dead body. It didn’t make me sick, but it did put me into shock.
Mr. Beecher gave Mal another treat as we settled onto the steps to my apartment. “I don’t know why Rex leapt to the conclusion that the body was left for me to find.”
“It was my first thought, too,” Mr. Beecher said.
“Why?” I asked. “You walk down this alley twice a day. The body could have been there for you to find.”
“Then they were successful as I did find it, too,” he said. “But most likely it was left for you.”
I rolled my eyes. “You can’t rule out Doud’s Market or Mackinac Gifts, their owners, and patrons,” I said. “It’s a stretch to say that it was left for me.”
“Not much of a stretch,” Rex said as he approached, his gloved hand holding the corner of a piece of paper. “They left you a note.”
About the Author
Nancy Coco is the byline chosen by popular author Nancy J. Parra for use exclusively with the Candy-Coated Mysteries series. With degrees in engineering, journalism, and an MA in Writing Popular Fiction, Nancy has published in cozy mystery, romantic suspense, and sweet western historical romances.
An Air Force veteran who rose to the rank of sergeant, Nancy is a member of an online group of female veterans who are authors—“Military Women Who Have Turned Sword to Pen.” The group’s Web site is www.romvets.com.
Nancy is also a member of Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime. She has given workshops on a number of writing topics and enjoys doing author panels at fan conferences such as Malice Domestic and Bouchercon. She lives in California with her dog—a bichonpoo affectionately known as Little Dog on Nancy’s Facebook and Twitter accounts. Check out Nancy’s Web site at www.nancyjparra.com.
The author will donate a portion of her earnings from this book to the ASPCA®. Learn what you can do to help at www.aspca.org/donate.
