To Fudge or Not to Fudge (A Candy-Coated Mystery with Recipes) (24 page)

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Authors: Nancy Coco

BOOK: To Fudge or Not to Fudge (A Candy-Coated Mystery with Recipes)
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And so it was that I stood on the pier and waved good-bye to my mom.
Refreshed from a good night’s sleep, I did two demonstrations the next day, enjoying the art of it. Then Trent came by, took my hand, and escorted me to the black-and-white movie. I realized that at this moment in time all was well. And with the support of my family and friends, running the McMurphy was far from the crazy venture I had held on to for so many years. Perhaps, just perhaps, I was finally and truly home.
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to The Island Bookstore of Mackinac Island for help with the details—all mistakes regarding Mackinac Island life are mine as I’ve never met an embellishment I didn’t like. Thanks to the team members at the day job, USDTL, for taste-testing fudge recipes. Thanks to all the wonderful book lovers who support me by reading, editing, cheering, and suggesting—you know who you are Liz, Joelle, Dru Ann, and all . . . Your time and efforts are truly appreciated. Special thanks to my editor Michaela Hamilton for believing in the series, enjoying the recipes, and bringing Gene with her because he has a talent for taking great pictures that make us look so young. Last but far from least, thanks to my agent Paige Wheeler, who advises, negotiates, supports, and frees me to do what I do best—write.
Join Allie, Mal, and their friends
in the next Candy-Coated Mystery
Oh Say Can You Fudge
Coming from Kensington in 2015
Turn the page for a preview excerpt . . .
CHAPTER 1
I was working on a red, white, and blue striped fudge recipe when I got a call from Rodney Rivers. So, of course, I let the call go to voice mail. I mean, nothing, but perhaps the curtains on fire, interrupted working with hot sugar. I was at the most delicate part of making fudge—the stirring to cool. If you overbeat the fudge while it cools, it sugars. If you underbeat the fudge, it’s too soft. Therefore a random phone call from the pyro technician in charge of the Mackinac Island Star-Spangled Fourth firework celebration could be answered later. Right?
Except I got caught up in the fudge.
Three hours later, still not happy with the recipe, I noticed the blinking light on my cell phone and called up the voice mail.
“Allie, we’ve got a problem. Meet me at the fireworks warehouse as soon as possible.” Rodney sounded angry. “The entire program is in ruins.”
Oh, man, that was not good. I had had to fight my way onto the Star-Spangled Fourth event committee in the first place. It was only because old man Slauser had died in May that I had been able to join the committee and take over the fireworks program. It was all part of my ongoing plan to become an upstanding member of Mackinac Island society.
Message two came up.
“Allie, answer your phone, will you. This is serious and time sensitive.” Rodney’s tone had gone from angry to desperate. “The entire back row of fireworks has been tampered with—Hey, you, what are you doing here? Are you responsible for . . .” The phone went eerily dead.
Well, that certainly can’t be good. I dialed the callback number, but it went straight to voice mail. I left a message. “Hey, Mr. Rivers, this is Allie McMurphy. I just got your voice mails. I’m headed to the warehouse. Call me if you’re no longer there. Otherwise, I’m coming down to see what I can do to help.” I hung up my phone and stripped out of my chef’s jacket, which was stiff from sugar and candy ingredients that tended to float in the air whenever I was inventing something new. The lobby door to the McMurphy was open to let in the soft, fresh lake air, which blew the summer white linen curtains softly. “Frances, I need to meet Mr. Rivers at the fireworks warehouse. Can you cover for me until Sandy comes in?”
“Sure can,” Frances, the historic McMurphy Hotel and Fudge Shoppe reservation manager, whom I inherited with the McMurphy, answered from her perch behind the reservation desk. “What’s up?”
“He didn’t say exactly, but there may be something wrong with some of the fireworks.”
“Do you want me to call the fire department?” Frances looked at me over the top of her dark purple reading glasses. It was hard to tell she was in her seventies. She kept her brunette hair immaculate and her skin glowed in a way I hoped mine would at her age.
“No, I think if it were bad enough for the fire department Mr. Rivers would have called them. He’s an expert at that kind of thing and has always stressed safety first.”
My bichonpoo puppy, Marshmallow—Mal for short—got up from her comfortable spot in the pink doggie bed beside Frances. She stretched her back legs in a manner I liked to call doggie yoga and trotted over to me, then begged to be picked up. When I ignored the blatant display of cuteness, she poked my leg with her nose—a sign she knew I was going out and she expected me to take her.
“No, Mal, it’s too far for you,” I said and gathered up my keys and things in a small bag with shoestring handles that went over my shoulders like a backpack. Mal sat, sighed loudly, and turned back to her bed. “I’ll call as soon as I find out more.” I pulled the bag over my shoulders. “Let Sandy know we’re short on the chocolate cherry and the cotton-candy fudge.”
“Will do,” Frances said and went back to her computer. She had been my Grammy Alice’s best friend and a teacher who worked for Papa Liam as his reception desk worker for over forty seasons. When Papa had died this March, she had stayed to help me navigate the ins and outs of running the McMurphy. I made her my hotel manager and we made a great team.
I counted on her to introduce me to our recurring customers. Some had been summering at the McMurphy for generations, others just a season or two—but Frances remembered them all.
I went out the back door of the McMurphy and unchained my bicycle from the stand in the back alley. Part of the appeal of Mackinac Island—besides the world-famous fudge and the grand Victorian painted-lady cottages—was the fact that motorized vehicles, with the exception of the ambulance, were not allowed on the island. That meant there were three modes of transportation: horse-drawn carriage, bicycle, and on foot. Since the fireworks were stored in a cinder-block warehouse near the airport, I decided to bike it. Two miles on foot might make my current tardiness even worse.
It was a lovely day. I was continually amazed at the laid-back beauty of the island and the large state park in the center. The park offered good hiking, beautiful views, and fresh air to anyone who had had enough of the hustle and bustle of the fort and shops of Main Street. I watched the Grand Hotel’s Cessna 421 C charter plane land as I drew close to the airport.
The warehouse, just outside the airport, was built to store supplies that were flown in during the winter months when the ferries quit running. We picked it for the fireworks storage because it was cinder block and away from the crowds.
A handful of tourists stepped out of the plane and onto the tarmac. The Grand Hotel was a magnet for the wealthy and offered the charter plane service as a quick and easy way onto the island from Chicago or Detroit.
The three men stepping out of the plane were perfectly groomed and wore aviator sunglasses, stylish jeans, and immaculately pressed linen shirts. Two women wore what appeared to be designer-cut halter dresses with floral patterns. Their long bare legs were made even longer by their gold-toned sandals.
The last to step out of the plane was Sophie Collins, the local pilot. She wore a crisp white shirt with epaulets and tan slacks. Her dark curly hair was pulled back in a low, easy ponytail. I waved at her. She waved back, then turned to escort her clients to the waiting horse-drawn carriage that would take them to the Grand Hotel.
I met Sophie at a dinner party Trent Jessop’s sister had given for about twenty of the local island folks. Unlike the others, Sophie had been the only one to treat me like an equal. We had a long discussion about the cliquishness of island society. Sophie was in her early thirties and had been a full-time pilot for the Grand Hotel for ten years. She still occasionally ran up against people treating her like an outsider.
I parked my bike in front of the warehouse and took note that there were two other bikes nearby. One had the look of a rental bike. On Mackinac Island there were many places to rent bikes. Most of the better hotels had bike rental right outside their doors. The second bike was a professional off-roader. It had the used look of a local’s.
“Hello?” I said as I opened the door. “Mr. Rivers? It’s Allie McMurphy. I’m sorry for the delay. I was in the middle of developing a new fudge recipe. I came as soon as I got your messages.”
The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed and hissed above me. “Hello?” The first aisle was quiet. While the shelves were filled with boxes large and small, there wasn’t a human to be found. “Mr. Rivers? It’s Allie. You left me a message about a problem?”
The second aisle of shelves was also empty. I paused to see if I could hear anyone talking. There were two bikes besides mine, so someone had to be here, didn’t they?
The warehouse contained two offices in the back near the bay doors, which were big enough to bring in full pallets of supplies—in this case, fireworks. Maybe Rodney Rivers was in one of the offices with whoever else was here. It could be that they had closed the door and couldn’t hear me.
A quick glance down the third and last aisle didn’t reveal anything tragic as his voice mail stated. Perhaps he cleared everything up already. After all, it had been over an hour since the last phone call.
My phone rang. Startled, I jumped what felt like ten feet. Clearly I was on edge in the warehouse. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and saw that the number belonged to Rex Manning, sexy police officer and now my good friend. “Hello?”
“Allie, are you okay? Frances said there may be trouble at the fireworks warehouse.”
“I’m good, except my heart is racing from being startled by my phone ringing,” I replied and walked toward the two offices. The offices were built with half walls of cinder block and the rest of each wall was a window so that the manager of the warehouse could look out and keep an eye on the workers.
Rex chuckled. “Spooky at the warehouse? Where’s Phil Angler? He’s usually around there somewhere.”
“I have no idea. When I got here there were two bikes parked outside. One looked like a rental, so I assume it belongs to Rodney Rivers, maybe the second belongs to Phil.”
“Was it a blue off-roader?”
“I think so,” I said and continued toward the darkened office. “I wasn’t paying that much attention. I was in a bit of a hurry.”
“Hurry for what?”
“I got two voice messages from Rodney Rivers. He’s the pyro technician I hired for the two fireworks shows. The first one said we had a problem at the warehouse and I was to call him back. The second got interrupted, but I think he said something about sabotage.”
“I don’t like the sound of that, Allie. Get out of the warehouse.” His tone of voice brooked no argument. Not that his tone had any effect on me.
“I’m fine. As far as I can tell no one’s here.” I put my free hand on the glass to break the glare and peered into the dark office. “According to my phone the last call was an hour or so ago. Maybe he resolved things already.”
“Allie, I’m serious. Get the hell out of the warehouse. Do it now.”
“But—”
“I swear, Allie, sometimes you are too stubborn for your own good. Get out. The place might be rigged and—”
“—could explode,” I finished and pursed my mouth as I peered down the aisle. The last office was just a few feet away with only the distance of the bay door between me and it. “I watch TV, too. How often does that happen in real life?”
“Allie—”
“Okay, fine. I’m at the bay door in the back anyway. I’ll just stick my head over and take a peek in the second office and I’ll leave.”
“I’m nearly there,” Rex said. “I need you to leave now.”
“But it’s only a few feet and I’ll be careful.” I checked for trip wires or anything like what you see in movies that might cause an explosion as I carefully tiptoed across the bay door. “If anyone sees me doing this, they’re going to think I’m crazy.”
“Allie, I’m very serious—”
“I’m being careful, really. I promise, I won’t open the door or anything. I’m only going to peek inside.” I slowly made it across the bay to see there was a light on in the second office. “The light is on. I’m sure it will be fine. Phil’s probably inside, unaware that you have me skulking around.”
“Darn it, Allie.”
I peeked inside the window and stopped cold. “Oh, no.”
“What is it? What’s going on?”
“There’s a man slumped across the desk faceup.” I couldn’t help the wince in my voice. “He’s faceup so I can see his expression and his eyes have the same look that Joe Jessop’s did. I’m pretty sure he’s dead. Do you want me to go in and see?” I reached out to the office doorknob.
“Freeze!” Rex’s voice echoed from both the phone and hall behind me.
I screamed a little and wheeled around to see Rex Manning striding purposefully toward me, dressed in full police uniform, his bike helmet still on his head. He had one hand out in the universal sign of
stop
and the other hand on the butt of the gun on his hip.
“Darn it! You scared me half to death.” I scowled at him. “How did you get here so fast?”
“Frances called me the minute you left the McMurphy.”
“Figures,” I muttered. “Why didn’t you tell me you were in the building?”
“Get your hand off that doorknob, Allie.” Rex was serious, and his seriousness got to me. It was one thing for him to be authoritative on the phone and quite something different to see him face-to-face in full cop mode. I raised both hands slowly in the air.
“I’m not touching it.”
“Good,” he said and was beside me. “Hang up your phone.” He looked into the office. “Shoot, you’re right. He has the blank stare of a dead man. You need to get out of the building.” He put his hand on my arm and gently led me to the entrance door beside the bay door. He stopped and carefully inspected the door, running his hand along the edges. “Feels clean.” He cautiously opened the door. Alarms went off, blaring.
I covered my ears and let him lead me outside and a few hundred feet from the building. We stood where the surrounding parking lot gave way to woods.
“Charlene,” Rex said into the walkie-talkie on his shoulder. “We need the fire department and the EMTs—and call in a bomb squad from Mackinaw City.”
“Bomb squad?”
“That’s right.” Rex studied me. “Allie McMurphy reported a phone call that someone tampered with the fireworks. I want a bomb squad here to check out the warehouse before anyone goes back in there.”
“I’ve got a call into Mackinaw City,” Charlene replied over the crackle of the walkie-talkie. “Do I need to send in Shane?”
“What makes you think we need the assistant ME?”
“Allie McMurphy’s there, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then there’s a ninety-eight percent chance she found another dead body.”
Rex’s mouth went flat, making a thin line of disgust. “Get the fire department out here.”
“Yes, sir.” She didn’t sound the least bit contrite. “That girl is trouble, Officer Manning. Be careful.”
“Allie didn’t find a dead body,” Rex said sharply. “She called in the bomb threat like a responsible adult.”
“I’m sure she did.” The communicator went dead as they hung up.

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