To Fudge or Not to Fudge (A Candy-Coated Mystery with Recipes) (18 page)

“Crazy.”

“Funny, I hadn’t thought of that in years.” Mom shrugged. “I think there was another group that tried to get Wiccans to come up for the solstices and celebrate. But I’m not certain if that ever came together. Why all the questions?”

“Mrs. Finch said she doesn’t need a leash to control her Saint Bernard, Daisy. She uses Transcendental Meditation and thought control.”

“Oh . . . dear.”

“Right?” I shook my head. “Rex . . . er, Officer Manning, told me that Mrs. Finch used to be a member of a group of hippies. Do you remember if that’s true?”

Mom shrugged. “That was a very long time ago. And most of the commune people were from off the island. I remember they held a sit-in protest, but soon found themselves sitting in on the ferry that carried them back to St. Ignace, where they found less resistance in the Upper Peninsula.”

“Do you know where they wanted to put their commune?” I asked as I took off the dirty apron and put on a chef’s coat then gathered the ingredients I would need for today’s candy-bar fudge. This time I was making Almond Joy and Mounds fudge. The first would have a milk chocolate base and coconut and almonds. The other would have dark chocolate base fudge and contain only coconut.

“I think it was on the Lake Huron side between Mission Point and downtown. Why?”

“I followed Mrs. Finch from town, but lost her in some deep woods on the other side of Jessop’s Compost and Mulch. I’ll have to see if there is a building there or not.”

“If there is, then it has been registered to the island planning authority.”

“I can’t leave the building. At least not until this bracelet is off.”

“I’ll go,” Jenn said. “I want to see Shane anyway.”

“Okay.” I measured out the chocolate, the cream, and the sugar.

“What am I looking for?”

“Anything that might explain where Mrs. Finch was going and what she was going to do.”

“That’s a tall order from some dry zoning papers.”

“I suppose I could try Zillow, but they only list what properties are for sale and what their list price is . . . I’m not certain that information will help.”

“You make fudge.” Jenn swept the air toward me. “I’ll go dig around in the public records. I promise to let you know the minute I find anything that might suggest what Mrs. Finch is up to.”

“Thanks!”

“You are very good at that,” Mom said. It was Wednesday and the shop had emptied of the crowd that always gathered when I did a demonstration.

“Thanks,” I said as I scrubbed dishes. “A good demonstration can draw them in to buy like a carnival barker. Only, I don’t think I’m selling snake oil.” I shrugged. “Half the draw is to see how the candy is made.”

“I remember how your grandfather loved to do a demonstration because he could get quite a crowd to form while he told his stories.” Mom sat on one of the stools just inside the tiled area that separated the fudge shop from the hotel. “Your father says that that kind of storytelling is classically Irish.”

I laughed at that. “You know, sometimes I feel as if I’m channeling Papa Liam. I’ll start off talking about the fudge and before I know it, I’m telling one Mackinac Island story after another. Thank goodness the fudge cools at a certain rate. It gives me a natural timer. When the fudge is done and samples are ready to go out, the story is over.”

“Your Papa was quite the character.” Mom shook her head. “I’ll never forget the first time I met him. He was all gruff and bushy but underneath was this warm teddy-bear heart.”

“How are you and Dad doing?” I asked as I rinsed the copper kettle I’d been scrubbing.

“What do you mean?”

“It can’t have been easy for Dad to lose his dad and you to lose Papa as well. We never talked about it. I was all caught up in getting my stuff together to open the place in time for the season. I didn’t think of you and Dad.”

Mom smiled. “There’s the woman I raised.”

I gave her a quizzical look.

“The woman I raised thinks about her family and her friends and sees beyond the end of her nose.”

I felt the heat of a blush rush up my neck. I tried to cover it by concentrating on the dishes.

“Your father has his moments,” Mom said. “Grief may have stages but everyone experiences them in different ways and in different order.”

“What about you?” I asked as I wiped down the counters and the marble cooling block.

“I underestimated Liam’s role in my life,” she said. “When my parents died, he was right there taking up the space in my life, lessening my grief.”

A thought occurred to me. “Your parents died the summer I was ten. I remember Papa and Grammy coming to the funeral and whisking me away to stay the summer with them. That was the year I decided I wanted to keep up the McMurphy tradition. I guess I thought by taking on the McMurphy I could keep my grandparents always with me.”

“That’s how family traditions get started,” Mom said. “They are created to heal the grief we experience when we lose someone so close to us.”

“Why are you here, Mom? Are you and Dad okay?”

“Your father needed some time alone.” She ran her manicured fingers along the edge of the class counter, then looked up. “You’re the only person I have to go to.”

My stomach lurched into my throat. I dropped my dishcloth and went straight to her and hugged her tight. “I love you, Mommy.”

She put her head on my shoulder, and tears welled up and spilled over. I held her and patted her back. I noticed that people looked in the windows with concern. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go upstairs.”

I kept my arm around her slender shoulders and sent Frances a look that asked her to cover the fudge shop. She nodded and mouthed, “Is everything okay?”

I nodded and bundled Mom into the elevator.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do this,” Mom said when we got off the elevator and I opened the apartment door. I headed straight to the tissue box and pulled her out a couple of tissues.

She took them and blew her nose. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“How about grief?” I asked. “Please have a seat. I’ll get us some water.” I hurried into the kitchen, pulled down two tall glasses, and filled them with ice and filtered water. I turned to see Mom had taken a seat on the barstools that went with the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the living area.

“Here.” I passed her a glass of water, keeping the bar between us to give her some space. She sipped the water and dabbed at her cheeks with a clean tissue from the box.

“Well, I had no idea that was going to happen,” Mom said when she had gotten control of herself. “I know you think I didn’t like Liam or the McMurphy or even the island. But that’s simply not true.”

“I believe you,” I said, my heart squeezing. “What’s going on with Dad?”

“He’s really taking Liam’s passing hard.” Mom paused and played with the condensation on her glass. She looked at me. “He regrets not doing what you’re doing and being a part of Liam’s day-to-day life.”

“But Dad always wanted to be an architect, right?”

“Yes,” Mom said. “It was a point of contention with them. Your father felt so much guilt in disappointing Liam. I made the decision to help them figure out their relationship.”

It hit me then what had really happened. “You told Dad you didn’t like the island.”

“Yes.” Mom blew out a long breath. “I took away the decision. As long as I was the bad guy, your father could accept the great job in Detroit and your grandfather could accept that his son wasn’t going to go into the family business.”

“Oh, Mom.” I went around and hugged her. “You know you don’t have to keep up the ruse anymore.”

“I know, but your father’s at the stage of grief when he’s blaming me. He feels that if he only took on the fudge shop Liam would have had less stress and would be here today.”

“But that’s not true—”

“We know.” Mom patted my hand. “He knows. He simply needed some room to work out the feelings. We all know that emotions take time to settle.”

“That’s why you jumped on putting money into the McMurphy. Here I thought you and Dad didn’t trust me to make good decisions.”

“Life isn’t always all about you,” Mom said. “It’s something I need to remind myself of every now and then.”

“As long as you don’t want me to build a second apartment for you to move into, I think we’ll be all right,” I teased.

“What? You don’t want me in your hip pocket telling you how best to run your life?”

“Um, no, thanks. I love you but . . . no.”

We both laughed, and I suddenly understood that sometimes you need each other even when you want to be independent. Family is a tricky thing to navigate, but that’s a universal thing.

“Allie McMurphy?”

“Yes?”

“Peter Thomas is awake.”

“Really? I’ll be right there.” I dropped everything and left the McMurphy in Frances’s capable hands, the fudge shop in Sandy’s more than capable hands, and I caught the first ferry off the island.

I stood on the top deck and watched the mainland grow bigger and bigger. Rex Manning stood beside me. “You know he has to speak to the authorities first,” he said. “Usually when they wake up from a coma they get tired very quickly. You may be going all this way and not get to see him.”

“That’s a chance I’ll take,” I said and tightened my hands on the guardrail. It was one of those perfect days when the sun is brilliant, the lake is calm, and the air is that combination of summer warmth, low humidity, and soft breeze caused by the movement of the boat. It smelled of fresh water and clean ozone. The sound of the motor roared behind us as we danced along the top of the surf.

“Thanks for taking off the bracelet,” I said. I’d met Rex at the pier, and he’d removed my ankle bracelet before I’d gotten on the boat. Thankfully, he’d agreed that I no longer needed to wear it.

“I’ve noticed that since they cast Tammy as a replacement the assaults stopped,” Rex said. “It doesn’t make any sense to have you as a suspect. I’ve got permission from the judge to drop the charges.”

“Great, but that still doesn’t prove Tammy had anything to do with Cathy’s death,” I said. I hadn’t had any time to change, so I wore my usual uniform of black slacks and pink polo with the McMurphy logo embroidered on the front left.

“My hope is that Peter will remember something that will help me bring the perpetrator to justice.”

“What about Heather’s death? Do you know anything more?”

“I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation with you, Allie. You know that, right?”

“Yes,” I said and looked away from his pretty blue gaze. “I know, I just forget.”

“Hey, you two,” Liz came up the steps to the top deck. “I guess we all got the call about Chef Thomas.”

“I’ve put in a strict order that no press be allowed near Chef Thomas.”

“Oh, Rex, you are such a buzzkill.” Liz shook her head. Her dark curls blew riotously in the wind. “I’m not going to interview the man. I’m going to interview the hospital staff and his family. A girl has to do her job.”

At the Mackinaw City docks Rex had a ride waiting for him in the form of the local police cruiser. I had paused to call a cab.

“Do you want a ride?” Liz asked as she approached a dark blue Ford truck. The truck looked like it had been in use for almost twenty years and had seen the very worst the weather and the lake could throw at it.

“Sure.”

She unlocked the passenger door with her key and then ran around the front to climb in the driver’s seat as I climbed inside. It smelled of old vinyl and dust. The interior was done in dark gray. A hula girl bobble figure sat on the dash swinging her hips. Liz started the truck up and put it into reverse. “It’s not pretty but it’s functional,” Liz said as she peeled out and followed the police cruiser. “I wanted a brand-new car, but my father wanted to know why. So I said what any teen would say because, you know, I knew better. I wanted the coolest shiny sports car because it was awesome and everyone would be my friend and look twice when I drove around.”

“Was it a little red sports car?”

“Close—it was an awesome blue Camaro. I worked for four years to save up my money for a down payment. I bought it, paid my insurance, and then parked it in the lot and took the ferry back to the island. I felt so amazingly proud of my accomplishment. A week later I caught the ferry back to the mainland to do some shopping and generally bum around in my cool ride.”

“Let me guess—someone had scratched it.” Parking lots were notorious for scratching cars.

“Even better, I got there and the car was gone.”

“Gone? As in stolen?”

“Stolen. You see, I used up all my money on gas and insurance. I didn’t pay the extra to park the car in a locked parking space. Someone else had seen my cool ride and decided to make it theirs.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“I filed a report and my insurance covered a third of the money I’d invested.” She turned the car right, keeping a respectful distance from the cop car. “I kept checking the police blotter for any word on my stolen car. A week or two went by and I knew my car was most likely gone for good. That’s when I put my money down on old Bertha here.” Liz patted her dash. “She runs like a nice quiet top, but no one would know that looking at her. She’s so old there isn’t even a need for parts from her.”

“I get it. No one wants to steal the old battered Ford.”

“Exactly. If they need parts that bad they simply drive through the country and pick one that the owner has sitting out in the field.” She turned again, and the hospital came into view. “Lesson learned. I never again asked Angus for a brand-new car.”

“I haven’t had a car since I left Detroit. In Chicago there was public transportation. Between the ‘L’ and the Metra and the bus system, it simply wasn’t worth paying the extra for parking.”

“And now you live on the island, which has a no-car rule.”

“Exactly.” I nodded. “I don’t miss it. Although I do make sure I drive at least forty hours every six months. I need to keep my skills up. You simply never know when you may need a vehicle.”

“You should get a truck like Bertha here.” She patted the dash. “All I keep on her is liability insurance. She’s so old that if she ever got hit she would be totaled. If she got stolen there wouldn’t be that much to replace.”

“Good idea,” I said. We turned into the hospital parking lot. The car Rex was in stopped at the entrance, and he hopped out. I waited for Liz to park before I tore off my seat belt and hurried to the door.

“Whoa, little lady.” A man in a security uniform stopped me. “Where are you going in such a big hurry?”

“I’m here to visit my friend,” I said. “I was told he finally woke up from a coma. Please, I need to see him.”

“Let me see your ID,” he demanded. I caught a glimpse of Rex and another officer turning down a hallway.

“Here, it’s me,” I said as I produced my driver’s license.

“Are you wearing glasses?”

“I have contacts now,” I said as he compared the bad picture to my face.

“You look like you’ve gained some weight,” the security guard said and bared his teeth. “Are you still living in Chicago?”

“No, I live on Mackinac Island. I haven’t had the opportunity to change my address yet.”

“Come on, what’s the hold up?” Liz asked. She had her press ID on a lanyard around her neck.

“My ID is out of date.”

“Oh, for goodness sake.” Liz rolled her eyes, snagging my ID out of the security guard’s hand. “She’s also press,” she said as she hung an ID around my neck. “Now let us go through.”

“Okay,” he said, “but I’ve got my eye on you.”

“Look—no weapons.” Liz held my hands up and pushed me through the security weapons detector. She then raised up her hands and grinned as she walked through the metal detector.

“Wow, that was interesting,” I said as she dragged me down the hall.

“My sources said he was in room 226.”

I followed Liz down the hall and to the right and up a half a flight of stairs. We ended up in a large open foyer that was mostly empty. We didn’t stop when we approached the nurse’s desk.

“Peter Thomas wanted to see us,” Liz said.

“He’s in 226 around the corner,” the nurse said.

We rushed on by the nurses’ station to find a room with a policeman stationed at the door.

“Peter Thomas?” I asked the officer.

“Yes,” he looked at me suspiciously. “Are you related?”

“He’s a very dear friend. The nurses contacted me to let me know he was awake.”

“According to his daughter he is not supposed to see anyone but her.”

“What’s your name? Officer Mede? Why are you here?” Liz took out her recorder and asked him point-blank: “Is Mr. Thomas under arrest or is this police protection because you fear for his life?”

The officer stiffened at the verbal onslaught. “I’m here to guard Mr. Thomas’s door to ensure that no one but police and family members go inside. If that means I’m protecting him from a killer then that’s what it means. If it means Mr. Thomas is a suspect and I’m here to ensure he does not leave, then that’s what it means.”

“Nice vague answer.”

“Who’s your boss? Where can I speak to him?” I asked and crossed my arms.

“Here’s my card,” he said and took two business cards out of his breast pocket. “You can call that number and they might be able to help you.”

“Huh, a cop with a business card,” Liz said and read it front and back. “I’ve got a phone call to make.” She took off down the hall so that she could use her cell phone in the stairwell.

“Look, I got a phone call from the nursing staff letting me know Peter was asking for me.”

“That is new information to me and contradicts what I’ve been told. I can’t help you. Right now it’s hearsay that they called you. If you can provide me with proof . . .”

The door to the room opened, and Rex popped his head out. “Good, you’re here, come inside.” He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me past the officer. I gave the guard the stink eye and went inside with Rex.

Inside was a cool, antiseptic room with white sheets and blankets on the bed. Machines surrounded Peter with the whirring sounds of pumps as they dialed up dosages of painkiller and IV fluid. There was a heart monitor beeping. Peter looked ten years older, and my heart broke.

His short black hair was flat on one side and stuck up on the other. His face was misshapen from the beating he took. The bruises had spread out to cover nearly every inch of exposed skin. He wore a standard hospital gown with multicolored polka dots on the material. He faced away from the door.

“Talk to him,” Rex suggested in a low voice. “He’s not responsive to me. Perhaps he’ll be better with you.”

“Is he awake?” I asked, my eyebrows drawn together in concern.

“Yes,” Rex said, “but not responsive.”

There was a young woman in the room. She had Peter’s blue eyes and thick black hair She wore jeans and a pale peach blouse that showed off her beautiful even-toned skin. She had high cheekbones that would be the envy of models all over the world.

“Hi, I’m Allie McMurphy.” I held out my hand.

“I’m Constance Thomas,” she said and shook my hand. Both of us spoke in low tones. “Thanks for having them call me the day they found him.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, at a loss for words. “I knew you were important to him and he would want you here. Is your mom here?”

“They’re separated. She’s off with her new boyfriend in Belize.”

“Oh, I didn’t know.”

She shrugged. “He doesn’t talk about it.”

“How’s Peter doing?”

“He comes and goes still,” she said. “I’m hoping that your visit will help to pull him back into the world.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” I went over to the side of the bed and reached down to touch Peter’s hand. “Hey, it’s me, Allie. You gave us quite a scare.”

Peter slowly turned his head and winced at the movement. I lightly stroked his hand in comfort. “Allie,” he said, his voice raw and whispery. “You came.”

“The minute they told me you were awake,” I said and squeezed his hand gently.

“You called Connie.”

“Yes, I knew you would want her here and she would want to be here.” I grew silent when he closed his eyes. His fingers loosened slightly, and I didn’t want him to slip back. “Peter,” I said his name and squeezed his hand.

He opened his eyes. “I’m so tired.”

“It’s because you’re healing and they have you on pain medication.”

He licked his lips and swallowed. “What happened? Was it a car accident?”

“You don’t remember?” I glanced at Rex, who frowned. “You were on Mackinac Island. You stayed at the Grand along with the cast and crew of your . . .”

“Reality series,” he finished weakly. “Yes, now I remember that part. Can’t be a car accident. There are no cars on Mackinac.”

“Right.” I smiled, encouraging him. “We were shooting until midnight.”

“Was it a final episode?”

“No.” I shook my head. “No—remember, they had us shoot another contest with only you as judge?”

“Cathy . . . Cathy Unger is dead.”

“Yes,” I said, relieved that some of his memory returned. “We had thought they were going to do a hometown shoot for each remaining candidate, but they decided to get one more contest shoot in.”

“I remember thinking you were brilliant,” he said. “I went to the producers about changing the story line so that you could remain.”

That surprised me. I blinked fast. “I told you I didn’t want to do a full season.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. “You deserve the title and the prize money.”

I felt him drift off again, and for the second time I squeezed his hand. “Peter, who hurt you?”

“What?” he croaked, his eyes rolling open.

“Who did this to you?”

“I don’t know. It was dark. I stumbled into them. They covered my head with something. I fought to breathe. They had a bat.”

“They? Were there more than one?”

“Yes,” he said so soft I had to lean in to hear him. “Front and back.”

“That’s enough for now.” A young female in a doctor’s jacket walked into the room. “He needs to rest. There’s coffee in the waiting area down the hall.”

I looked at Rex. “There was more than one attacker.”

“I got that.” His mouth was a thin line. His gaze flat. “His wounds are consistent with a bat. He’s short but solid. It had to be at least two to take him down.”

“Any idea who it is?” I asked.

“Can’t say.”