To Fudge or Not to Fudge (A Candy-Coated Mystery with Recipes) (14 page)

“Wait.” I sat up. “You’re arresting me to draw out the killer?”

“Yes.”

“So I’m supposed to what—wait in jail like Mrs. Finch and Daisy? While you run around chasing killers?”

“Yes—er—no.”

“That’s helpful.” I slouched back in my seat like a grumpy teen.

He made a face. “I don’t plan on keeping you in jail. You’ll be free to go.”

“Great!”

“But I’m going to keep you under house arrest. I need to make your arrest as real as possible to generate the audition process.”

“So you want me to stop going to tapings and stay at the McMurphy? Cool, I can do that.” I rubbed my face a second time. “I’m exhausted from all these tapings. It will be nice to concentrate on my fudge shop—especially during Lilac Festival time.”

“This arrest has to look and feel absolutely authentic. I want you to call in your lawyers. I want you to put up a fuss. Can you do that?”

I shook my head. “I let them talk me into this whole thing to get some publicity. I’d been promised good publicity, Rex. I’ve had nothing but hassels and humiliation.”

He leaned back and studied me with his poker face. “Help me catch this killer and you’ll get good publicity.”

“In the meantime, I get to be hassled and humiliated by Officer Lasko.”

“Leave Lasko to me,” he said. “Will you do it?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“What was it your friend Jenn said?”

“Any publicity is good publicity.” I ran my hands over my face. “Fine. I’ll do it. I just hope I don’t regret it.”

Prepare an 8” x 8” x 2” pan—butter the pan, cover the inside with parchment paper or wax paper. Butter the paper and set the pan aside.

 

In a large, heavy saucepan—note: during the boiling process the fudge can boil up and overflow if you don’t use a large enough pan—mix sugar, salt, cocoa powder, and almond milk. Stir over medium heat until the ingredients reach a full boil. Let boil unstirred until a candy thermometer reads 125°F or the soft-ball stage is reached. Remove from heat.

 

Add butter and vanilla—do not mix. Cool until the thermometer reads 110°F, then beat until fudge thickens and just begins to lose its gloss. Quickly pour half the fudge in the pan and spread to cover the bottom. Layer coconut over the top and pour the remainder of the fudge over the coconut layer. Place almonds in an 8” x 8” grid—one almond per inch. Cool completely. Cut into 1” pieces. Enjoy!

Being arrested is just as scary when it’s fake as it would be when it’s real. I lawyered up, and Rex handed me over to Lasko to process. Meanwhile, the associate producer, Brian Bere, came over with my lawyer and the show’s lawyer.

“No, no, no,” Brian said and rushed toward me.

Officer Wright stepped between us to keep Brian from grabbing me. Officer Lasko had one hand on the butt of her gun, and the other clutched my arm.

“You’re going to have to keep back,” Lasko said. “The arrestee is in the middle of processing.”

She dragged me away to the fingerprinting room. I glanced back. “How’s Chef Thomas?”

“He’s the same,” Brian said to me and then turned to the lawyers. “Let’s fix this mess and get my cast back on track, okay?”

Four hours later, I was in an ankle monitor device and marched over to the McMurphy under house arrest. The fingerprinting was done by computer scan now, so I didn’t have any ink residue to worry about. The mug shots were terrible, along with the endless amount of paperwork.

By the time I was fully processed, the lawyers had a court order to relinquish me to house arrest until the grand jury met to see if the police had a case that would pass the most rigorous scrutiny in court.

“House arrest is better than jail time,” my lawyer William said to me.

“I was told I needed to wear this ankle bracelet even in the shower.” I cringed. “Really? Why?”

“You’ve been deemed a flight risk. They have to know where you are at all times,” Mark said. “It was a condition of your bail hearing.”

“Fabulous,” I muttered. A crowd had formed in front of the McMurphy.

“Hey, Allie, is it true you were arrested in the murder of Cathy Unger?” Liz led the pack of reporters—both print and television.

“My client is innocent until proven guilty,” William said.

“Miss McMurphy’s house arrest is in lieu of jail time and bail. The arraignment hearing has been set for a week from today,” Mark added. “My client will take no further questions. Please send all inquiries to my office.”

Photo flashes went off like lightning, and I covered my eyes against the flash as they walked me into the McMurphy. I turned my back on the front glass windows and the crowd of reporters.

I rubbed my wrists. “At least they took the cuffs off,” I said. “It’s almost claustrophobic to be tied up like that.”

“Are you okay?” Jenn raced down the stairs from the office. “It’s all over the radio that you were arrested in the murder of that fudge contestant.”

“I’m fine, just a little roughed up.”

Brian came through the door next. The sounds of questions thrown at him and the flash of lightbulbs followed him into the lobby. He stopped and tugged on the tail of his shirt to straighten it. “What a mess. How long will she be out of commission?”

“At least a week,” I said.

“Not long,” Mark said.

“Could be a month to six weeks,” William said.

“Crud! Crud,” Brian said and pulled on his hair as he paced the length of the McMurphy. “I’ve got money guys on my tail. I’ve got one contestant being buried and another under arrest. My host and lead judge is in a coma. My insurance company better cover these delays. If it doesn’t, I’m screwed.”

“Wait,” I said. “Don’t you have an emergency plan in place for replacing contestants?”

“Right, the emergency plan.” Brian took out his phone without missing a step in his pacing. He pressed a button. “Yeah, hey, get me your head of casting. This is Brian Bere. I’ve got a mess going on up here in the wilderness. Yes, I know, it is an emergency. I need a new host and I need at least one if not two new contestants and I need them yesterday if that’s possible.” He paced back and forth. “Good, make it so.” He turned off his phone and put it in his pants pocket.

“We’re good,” Brian said. “I’m going to offer open auditions and try to get new cast members. I’ve got forty-eight hours to get the show back on track or we’re cancelled and I’m canned.” He yanked on his hair. “I don’t want to be canned. I’ve got too much riding on this show.” He paused in front of me. “You know people.”

I blinked. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

“Can you offer me a serious contender to take Chef Thomas’s place?” He started pacing again. “I need someone here ASAP.”

“You’re in luck,” Frances said. “You happen to be in the fudge capital of the world. Pick any fudge-shop owner and you have a well-qualified host and judge.”

“No, no, no.” His expression looked as if he ate something nasty. “I can’t take a nobody island hick and create a new host. I need polish, I need panache, I need Chef Thomas!”

“How about if you get a new ‘guest host’ each week until Peter comes back?” Jenn walked into the fray. She put her arm around Brian’s shoulder. “Imagine a shocking new guest host every week.”

“Shocking? How?”

“Who would the contestants not want to see as host?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Brian said. “Who?”

“How about the voted-off contestants?” Jenn asked. “They’re here, right? They’re qualified and they’re under contract. It’s a great twist. Now they’ll be judged by the very people they beat off the show.”

“They’ll be judged by the competition . . .” He crossed his left arm, held his right elbow, and rubbed his chin with his right hand. “This might work.”

“Of course it will work,” I said. “Jenn is great. Jennifer Christensen meet Brian Bere. Brian’s my associate producer and Jenn is my partner this summer.”

Jenn smiled and stuck her hand out. Brian shook it without thought. “Remember, your judges are already here on island.”

“And under contract. Brilliant! Sometimes I amaze myself.” Brian hit the door running. “Where’s my assistant. . .”

“You’re welcome,” Jenn called after him. She rolled her eyes. “People behind the scenes never get any credit.” She put her hands on her hips. Today Jenn had on a McMurphy pink polo and a pair of tan cargo pants.

“Maybe you’ll get a line in the credits,” I teased.

“Money would be nice,” she muttered.

“Ha! I wish they paid us.” I said and went to get a cup of coffee.

“Wait, they aren’t paying you?” Jenn looked horrified. “No wonder you’re trying to kill them all.”

“Oh, please, I didn’t try to kill anyone.” I poured half-and-half into my coffee cup, stirred it, and took a swig. “There is only do or do not, there is no try,” I quoted.

“Then why is my baby wearing an ankle bracelet?”

I froze, then looked over to see my mother coming through the back door with Mr. Devaney. “Mom?”

“She was out in the alley claiming she was part of the family,” Mr. Devaney said and shrugged.

“Ann?” Frances said. “My goodness, it’s been a while.” Frances stopped Mom and gave her a big hug, allowing me a moment to get ahold of myself.

“Hi, Frances,” Mom said as she patted Frances’s back. Her gaze never left me. “All right, young lady. Why is there a horde of reporter outside and my daughter on lockdown inside? Come clean or I’m sending your father up here.”

“Oh, geez,” I muttered, then plastered a big smile on my face. “Hi, Mom! Welcome to the McMurphy.”

“All right, spill,” my mother ordered. I had managed to get her upstairs and on the couch in my apartment. Jenn made her a cup of tea. “And don’t leave anything out.”

“It started when Mal found bones in the mulch by the
Town Crier.
”

“Who’s Mal?” She asked.

As if on cue, Frances opened the door, and Mal came charging into the apartment. In one leap she was in my lap, licked my cheek, turned to my mom, and held out her paw for a shake.

“This is Mal,” I said and wiped off her kiss with the back of my hand. “Frances bought her to keep me company.”

“Well, aren’t you just the cutest thing?” Mom softened. She shook Mal’s paw and then gathered her up as if she were her own baby child and petted and cuddled the pup. “Yes, you are the cutest little thing.” Mom looked up at me. “Why on earth did you name this sweet thing
Mal
?”

“Her full name is Marshmallow” I said. “Because she’s fluffy and white and lives in a fudge shop.”

Mom pulled Mal up to stand her face to face, holding her under her front paws. “What a big mean girl your mommy is,” my mother said in a baby-talk voice. “Who calls a cute little thing like you Marshmallow? You look more like a Brigitte to me.” She looked at me from around the dog. “Why didn’t you name her Brittany or Bridget or something as sweet and cute as her?”

“She prefers Mal,” I pointed out and took the cup of tea Jenn handed me. “Thanks,” I said to my bestie.

“Well, then, that’s fine if that is what you like. Is that what you like, pretty girl? Who’s a good girl? Hmm?” Mom let go and Mal circled her lap twice and then curled up and went to sleep.

“Traitor,” I muttered.

Mal grinned in her sleep.

“Now, where were we? Oh, yes, why is my baby under house arrest? What were you thinking when you did whatever they arrested you for?”

“It’s murder,” I said with a sigh. “Some people drive you to it,” I mumbled and sipped my tea.

Jenn heard me and stifled a laugh behind her coffee cup.

“Mom, why are you here? I thought you hated Mackinac Island.”

“I don’t hate it . . . per se,” she said. “I wanted to come and check on you. This being your first season all alone.”

“She’s not alone, Mrs. McMurphy,” Jenn said. “She has me and Frances and Mr. Devaney and a part-time chocolatier who makes marvelous sculptures.”

“Well, sounds like you have assembled quite the team.”

“I have, Mom, we’re working well together. We made lilac-infused fudge and are holding two teas. The first one was just this afternoon and was amazing.”

“I’m sure it was.” She took a sip. “Was that before or after they arrested you?” Mom raised a delicate eyebrow.

I loved my mom to death. She was a fantastic teacher and a great mom. But I was twenty-seven now and a full-fledged adult. She was always welcome to visit, but I didn’t need her supervising my life anymore. “It was before.”

“What was this entire hullabaloo about murder? Why would anyone think—let alone have enough evidence to arrest you—that you murdered someone?”

“I was the last person to see a rival fudge-shop contestant alive.”

“Is that all?” Mom shook her head. “Why, that happens all the time to people in Detroit and the police don’t go around willy-nilly arresting people. There are laws and procedures that must be followed.” Mom pursed her mouth in obvious impatience. “Come morning, I’m going down to that police station and have a word with this Officer Rex Manning. Who does he think he is?”

“Mom.”

“See, dear, this is what I hate about island life—everyone is quick to judge and put you in your place. I bet they still call you a fudgie, don’t they?”

“Mom.”

“Just like a place this small. Why, even though your father was a McMurphy, they still called me a foreigner/ fudgie. No matter what I did I was never accepted—”

We all waited for her to wind down.

“Mom, I’m tired. I bet you’re tired as well. Did the porter bring up your bag?”

“I carried my own, thank you. It’s not that far, you know.”

“I know. Come on. I’ll change the sheets on my bed. You can have my room. Jenn has the spare.”

She got up, snuggling Mal, and put her mug on the kitchen counter. “If I sleep in your bed, where will you sleep?” She paused. “You don’t already have a boyfriend, do you?”

“No.” My voice rose sharply.

“No, of course not.” She patted my cheek. “What was I thinking? This is you we’re talking about. You always were all about this dreary little hotel in this . . . island.”

“I love my work and my decision to keep up the family business.” I followed her back to my room.

“We’re doing very well,” Jenn added as she came with us. “The last six weeks we’ve been fully booked and our extras like a cocktail party and the two teas have brought positive results for charity.”

“Yes, yes.” Mom carried Mal and absently patted her head. “I’m sure you feel as if you’ll be just fine. But it’s still early in the season. And what are your plans for after the season? Hmm? I don’t see two vibrant young women like you living full-time on the island.” Mom turned to me and put Mal down on the bed. “We are fully expecting you to leave after this season and spend the winter in Detroit. I’ve got your old room cleaned and ready.” She patted my cheek. “You were in Chicago long enough. And now you’re playing innkeeper in your grandparents’ home. As I said, I understand the appeal, but trust me. It wears off quickly when your entire life is about fudge and island festivals.”

“Sheets are in here.” I opened the linen closet that was built into the wall at the end of the hall next to my bedroom. “I hung them out on the line like you like.” I pulled fresh sheets out of the closet and buried my nose in them. “They smell sunshine fresh.”

“Wonderful.”

While I helped Mom make up the bed, Frances stuck her head into the room.

“I’m going home. Mr. Devaney’s going to accompany me. Good night all.”

“Good night, Frances,” Mom said. “It was wonderful seeing you. Please tell Mr. Devaney I said good night. I’m sure I’ll see you both in the morning.”

“Good night, Frances, thanks for your help today.”

“It was my pleasure.” She nodded toward the heavy bracelet on my ankle. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said with a reassuring smile.

“Goodnight, then.” Frances waved and left.

Mom went to the bedroom door and closed it. “Now that we’re alone,”—she picked up Mal absently and petted the soft puppy fur—“what is really going on with you?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“That is not nothing,” she said.

“Fine, I’m doing Officer Manning a favor.”

“You’re doing a man who investigated you for murder earlier and who has clearly arrested you in a second—different—case a favor? Why?”

“He’s trying to catch the real killer and he thinks they might get bolder when they think I’m taking the blame for their crime.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Mom frowned. “At best they are going to take the next ferry off island, if they haven’t already, and let you take the fall for the entire affair.”

“Mom, why did you come?” I sat down on the bed.

She handed me Mal and dusted off her hands. “No reason.”

“No reason?”

“Why can’t a mother simply want to check in with her daughter—especially when her daughter has just been saddled with a monstrosity like the historic McMurphy?”

“So that’s it? You came all the way up here—to a place you do not like—to
check on
me?”

“I never said I disliked Mackinac Island.” Mom put her suitcase on the cedar chest at the end of my bed and opened it up. “I never felt welcome here.” She straightened and put her hands on her hips. “I was always the foreigner. I hope and pray you never have to live in a place where—no matter how long you’ve lived there—you are treated as the odd man out.”

“Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry.” I gave her a big hug. “I always thought you hated it here. But I never knew why—thanks for clearing that up.”

She sniffed. “They don’t treat you like a fudgie, do they?”

“Well . . .”

“Oh, that makes me so mad. Who treats you like that? I swear I will go straight to them and give them a piece of my mind. After all, every single white peon on this island is a tourist and half the Natives as well.”

I started laughing at her outburst.

“What?”

“You are so funny. You know you didn’t have to come all this way. I’m a grown-up now and fully capable of fighting my own battles.”

“Well,” she said and sat down with her nightgown in hand. “I hope you don’t expect me to leave tomorrow.”

“No,” I said and hugged her again. “You’re always welcome to come and spend all the time you want for a nice visit. Lilac Festival is one of my favorite times. The entire island smells so lovely and the air has that soft quality where it caresses your skin.”

“You say that now.” She sighed long and hard. “The first time your father brought me on island I thought it was so lovely—all lake breezes and perfectly manicured gardens. The charm of the horses and carriages and if you are up early or out late you can see all the maids and groundskeepers in their uniforms heading to and from the big Victorian cottages. It could be one hundred years ago when the houses were grand and the people who lived in them during the season were even grander.”

She grew quiet. “Then you are one of those maids and gardeners. You are the shop keepers and artists. Never quite one with the island. Never quite belonging in the beautiful cottages.” Mom looked off into space for a moment. Then she came back and shrugged. “I like Detroit. It has its good and its bad but there is a feeling of accomplishment when I go home at night.”

I sat down with her and patted her hand. “I’m all right, Mom. I’m building my life here. That has to be magic enough for me.”

“Yes, well, it certainly has been a long day for you.” She stood up and bustled about. “Why don’t you go and get ready for bed. I’m sure you have to get up at some ungodly hour.”

“Good night, Mom.”

“Good night.”

Butter an 8” x 8” x 2” pan. Line with wax paper. In a double boiler melt milk chocolate, butter, and sweetened condensed milk until smooth. Be careful not to burn. Remove from heat. Add vanilla and toffee chips. Pour into pan. Refrigerate overnight. Remove from pan. Cut into pieces. Store in a covered container.