To Fudge or Not to Fudge (A Candy-Coated Mystery with Recipes) (15 page)

“Well, this certainly is not going to help us with the investigation,” Jenn said. She came out of the bathroom in her pink-and-white-striped pajamas, brushing her teeth.

I punched my pillow and adjusted my legs into the couch. “What investigation?”

She stopped with the brush in her hand. “Oh, come on, we were on the case to find out about the bones and poor Chef Thomas.”

“I’m under house arrest.” I waved to the ankle bracelet that stuck out from under my nightgown.

“Is there any way to undo that thing?” She wandered back into the bathroom and spit, then rinsed. “Allie?”

“Oh, please,” I said and rolled my eyes. “Better criminals than us have tried to outsmart these things.”

“Why did you agree to wear that thing anyway?”

“I have no idea . . .” I stared at the ceiling. “That’s a lie. He looked at me with those pretty blue eyes with long black lashes and asked for my help.”

“HA!” Jenn ran in. “You like him.”

“Rex is just a friend.” I waved it off.

“Oh, I don’t know—there’s something that works between a girl who finds dead bodies and a lawman whose job it is to figure out who did it.” Jenn crossed her arms.

“Let’s not talk about my nonexistent love life,” I said.

“Didn’t I see Trent stop in yesterday? What’s up with the handsome stable guy?”

“He’s certain that the body wasn’t in his mulch. He came to let me know.”

“He stopped by to see you to tell you that you don’t need to investigate him this time?”

“Yes, something like that.” I rolled on my side and sighed at the clock that read 10:52
PM
. Five
AM
came quick when you were up after ten.

“Did you offer him a coffee? A Danish? Dinner and a movie with some snuggles after?”

“You have love on the brain,” I said. “How is it going between you and sexy scientist?”

Jenn grabbed a spare pillow and crashed on the floor next to the sofa. “Slumber party!”

“Oh, Good Lord, I have to work in the morning—and my mother is here.” I waved toward my closed bedroom door.

“What is that all about anyway?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, what did she say?”

“She said she came to spend some time with me.”

“But I thought she hated this place.” Jenn stretched out on a blanket she had put on the floor. “I guess she sucked it up for you.”

“Right. When my mom says that she’s always got some other agenda in mind.”

“I find it hilarious that she took your dog in with her,” Jenn grabbed the edge of the blanket and rolled up in it.

“She certainly has taken to Mal.”

“Better watch that she doesn’t stick your puppy in her suitcase and take her home with her.”

“We can’t have that,” I said and crossed my arms. “Who would solve this murder mystery?”

“Ha! We need to get her some Scooby Snax.” Jenn laughed.

“Stop it.” I rolled my eyes, and Jenn giggled like a schoolgirl. “Shhh, Mom needs her sleep.”

“It’s really terrible about poor Heather,” Jenn said.

“I know. Wait, if she interviewed for the Grander, she couldn’t have been dead that long.”

“It’s only been a few weeks since people last saw her,” Jenn said. “Shane says it has to do with the increased level of decomposition in the compost pile. He was so excited—you should have seen him get his geek on.”

“Okay, so that’s creepy. Do they have any idea what she died of? Was it something horrible like falling into a mulcher?”

“I certainly hope not.” Jenn shuttered. “I’d rather be poisoned by fudge.”

“That was not my fudge and Rex knows it.”

“Then why the ankle bracelet and all the fuss?”

“He thinks when the show runs auditions for the new cast members, the killer will be among the auditions.”

“Hey, here’s an idea, since you are housebound for the foreseeable future, how about if I audition for one of those parts?”

“Why?”

“Well, to help catch the killer.”

“But you don’t have any candy-making experience.”

“So?” She shrugged. I’ll get an earpiece and you can talk me through it. Look, it will be awesome. We’ll still get publicity for the McMurphy and possibly flush out whoever hurt your friend.” She paused, her eyes glittering in the late-night light. “That way, we have a mole on the inside looking out for a killer.”

“I don’t want you to end up like Peter or like Cathy.”

“No worries, I’ll be really careful. So is it a go?”

I chewed on my bottom lip. “What if Rex says no?”

“Then we won’t do it.” Jenn shrugged.

“Okay, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” Jenn’s eyes lit up, and she clapped her hands. “Great! I’ve always wanted to do one of those cooking reality shows.”

“Good night, Jenn.”

“What time are the auditions?”

“I have no idea. They’ll post the notice tonight. Go down to the administration building in the morning. They usually post them on the bulletin board.”

“Cool.”

 

 

Monday morning I was up and making fudge by five
AM
. At seven
AM
, Jenn came down fresh as a daisy in white pedal pushers, a turquoise blouse, and turquoise wedges.

She poured herself some coffee while I tossed fudge in the air to cool it.

“You’re up early and dressed to kill,” Frances said as she came in the back way.

“They’re posting auditions for replacements on Allie’s reality show. I want to be there and try out.”

“But you don’t know how to make fudge,” Frances pointed out.

“You don’t have to know.” Jenn eyed Frances over the top of her coffee. “I read online that all you need to do is come in for a video test to see if you record well and have the ability to read from a script. I have both!”

“No wonder they murdered Cathy. If you don’t need to know how to make fudge, then what’s the show about?”

“Personality, Frances.” Jenn patted her on the back. “Something I have buckets of. Okay, I’m off, wish me luck.”

“Good luck.”

“You should call that producer guy you talked to yesterday. Tell him to hire Jenn. Having a second pair of eyes in the competition is a good idea.”

I made rocky-road fudge, sprinkling the dark chocolate base with mini-marshmallows and peanuts and lacing it with caramel, then I carefully folded the ingredients in so that ribbons of caramel ran through the fudge and didn’t just combine with the chocolate.

“I think we should ask Rex before we go any further in our own investigation.”

“Why? So he can have Jenn under house arrest, as well as you?”

“I’m his best suspect,” I said. “With the ferries coming and going at all hours, plus airplanes, he wanted to ensure I didn’t leave the island.” I shrugged. “It’s okay. I’m used to it by now.”

Frances shook her head and poured herself a large cup of coffee. “Poor Heather Karus. She still had so much life to live. I don’t know what is going on. They won’t specify the how and why of her death. Mr. Karus must be devastated. You know his wife died in January.”

“No, I didn’t know. I don’t believe I’ve ever met Heather or Mr. Karus. Did you know them well?”

Frances shrugged her shoulders. “They’re islanders. I know them as well as anyone knows a neighbor. Steven is your father’s age and Heather is around your age—was—around your age. Darn shame.” She took her seat at the reception computer and muttered, “Darn shame.”

“Wait,” I tilted my head. “Do you think that she committed suicide?”

“It hadn’t occurred to me,” Frances frowned. “She didn’t seem suicidal. I mean, I told you I thought she was in Paris with Fred. Would a girl who has a boyfriend in Paris be suicidal?”

“What if Fred broke up with her from Paris,” I spit balled.

“I hadn’t thought of that” Frances tapped her chin. “Combine that with her mom recently dying she might have . . .”

“Sometimes when people can’t live with their grief, they feel hopeless and helpless. It’s a vicious circle.”

“How do you know so much about it?” Frances studied me.

“I had a friend who attempted to take her life when I was in college. Her brother died in a car wreck. She was in the wreck as well, but she survived. The guilt of surviving and the pain of grief took her to the edge. Luckily, someone noticed and the authorities intervened and saved her life.” I cut one-pound portions of fudge and plated them on a long tray with a paper doily on the bottom to keep the fudge from sticking.

“Are you the one who intervened?”

I winced. “Is it that obvious?”

“No.” Frances sent me a soft smile. “It was a good guess on my part.”

“We should send flowers,” I said. “Does the
Town Crier
have the obit up yet?”

“It’s going in tomorrow.”

“What a sad thing to learn during the Lilac Festival.”

“It’s kind of historical,” Frances said. “In Victorian times a person in grief moved from black to lilac/lavender when six months passed to signal a new stage of grief and to let everyone know they were grieving.”

“Huh, that’s a weird and random connection.” I bit my bottom lip as I put the tray into the candy counter. “Do you know how they identified her?”

“There was a bit of bridgework on a part of the jawbone recovered. It was enough to identify the person who owned the jaw. Unless there is more than one person in the mulch, it’s safe to assume that all of the bones belong to Heather.”

“Please tell me she had a sense of humor or at the very least liked dogs . . .” I winced at the idea of Daisy or Mal with my jawbone in their mouth.

“I have no idea. The girl didn’t talk to anyone. She thought she was too good for the locals, remember?”

“Too good for everyone, but Fred, I suppose since she was dating him.” My eyes grew wide. “You don’t think Fred did it, do you?”

“As far as I know he’s been in Paris the entire time. If Fred is a suspect, no one’s saying, I imagine they’ll question Fred when he comes in for the funeral.”

“I don’t envy Rex having to do that.” I turned and pulled out the ingredients to make Snicker’s Bar fudge. Starting with a milk chocolate base, I would fold into the fudge a layer of peanut nougat, caramel, peanuts, and chocolate ships. It was the first of my candy-bar fudges.

“Poor Fred—to lose his girlfriend and then be interrogated,” Frances said. She sat on one of the stainless-steel stools and huddled around her coffee.

“I don’t see how he could have come to Mackinac, killed her and left unnoticed,” I said. “Do we even know who saw her last? Wasn’t she up for the pastry chef position at the Grander Hotel?”

“Yes, she was,” Frances said. “Tammy Gooseworthy beat her out for that job about a month ago.”

“That’s what you told me.” I stirred the base ingredients for Sneaker’s Fudge—a smooth milk chocolate fudge. Milk chocolate is lighter and creamier than dark chocolate. It’s also sweeter. “Tammy’s not the nicest person, is she?”

“Like I said, she can be competitive.” Frances chuckled and sipped her coffee.

“I bet she is in line ahead of Jenn for the new cast member for the show.” I pursed my lips as the fudge pot started boiling nicely. “You don’t think she’d kill for her position—do you?”

Frances’s expression grew solemn. “I certainly hope not.”

“What if Heather and Tammy got into a fight over the job and Tammy pushed her into the shredder?” I shuddered at the thought that someone might be alive when they fell into the massive shredder.

“Oh, surely not.” Frances looked like she tasted something bad.

“Pretty darn convenient that Heather went away and Tammy got the job.”

“It could be coincidental,” Frances said.

“I’ll call Jenn and have her find out from her science beau which shredder had evidence of human DNA. If it’s Gooseworthy’s then we should seriously consider Tammy our prime suspect.”

Mal uncurled herself from the dog bed by the fireplace where she slept while I was making fudge. She stretched leisurely, wagged her little tail, and came over to Frances. She jumped up and stretched against Frances’s leg.

That was Mal’s typical sign for “take me out please.” Frances patted her on the head and scratched behind her ears.

Mal sat down and waited for Frances to realize it was time to go out. Mal had us well trained.

“Okay, little one.” Frances stood, putting her coffee cup behind the reception desk. “Let’s get your leash.”

Mal popped up and ran to the hall tree that held her halter and leash.

Frances helped Mal into her star-studded halter and leash. Straightening, Frances looked at me.

“What?”

“What will we do if it’s the Jessops’ shredder that holds evidence of murder?”

I winced. “Um . . . look for a killer?”

Frances blew out a long sigh. Mal pulled and tugged on the leash, dragging Frances toward the back door. “Motive,” Frances said over her shoulder as they headed down the hallway to the back door. “We need motive.”

I tested the fudge for what stage it was in. Still not the soft-ball stage. I didn’t like to stir too much—it kept the fudge cooler and meant a longer cook time and more likelihood of sugaring.

“Motive,” I muttered. “That’s what we need in all three incidents—Heather, Cathy, and Peter.” Wait—were they all related? Cathy and Peter were easy to see a motive for—the $100,000 grand prize. But what did Heather have to do with the competition? Anything? I put a sugar dispenser on the countertop. It represented Heather. Next was a salt and pepper shaker—pairing for Cathy and Peter? “Some murder board,” I muttered. I took a lemon-juice dispenser and called it Tammy. She circled around Heather due to their competition for the job. Plus Heather was dating Tammy’s brother, so they fit on two connections.

I pulled the lemon-juice dispenser to the salt and pepper shaker. Tammy also had reason not to like Cathy. For two reasons: 1) Cathy wasn’t a real chef, 2) Tammy wanted a spot on the cast. Then there was the fact that Cathy was poisoned with fudge—something easy for Tammy to re-create.