To Fudge or Not to Fudge (A Candy-Coated Mystery with Recipes) (4 page)

“Trust me, you’ll be able to hire as many employees as you need.”

“I kind of like small-batch, real homemade fudge.”

“Please.” He crossed his arms and made a face. “Everyone knows that the fudge shops all make their fudge in a factory in Mackinaw City and ferry it out to the island.”

I raised my right eyebrow. “Not mine,” I said with my chin high and pride in my voice. “It’s what makes the McMurphy recipe so select.”

“And that’s a message you can get out to your customers.” He leaned forward to press his point. “I overheard your lovely receptionist worrying about your customers all leaving for the new hotel built up close to the Grand Hotel.”

“They’ll come back when they realize it’s just another modular hotel like the ones off island.” It was my turn to cross my arms. I realized that I missed these arguments—excuse me, “discussions.” Peter Thomas was one of the few people I could do this with, and I found it refreshing.

He leaned back. His shoulders fell as if in defeat.

My eyes widened. Had I won an argument?

He eyed me sideways, smiled, and went for the kill. “You get twenty grand an episode. I can see that you stay on or leave as soon as you have had enough.”

“You should do it,” Jennifer said. “Think of the publicity.”

“Think of the money,” Frances encouraged.

“Don’t do it. They’ll make a fool of you on television. No amount of money or publicity is worth it.” For the first time Mr. Devaney, my cranky handyman, sounded more like the voice of reason than a contrary senior citizen.

It was seven-thirty
PM
, and we gathered in my apartment after another busy day. The windows were opened wide to let the cool lake breezes blow through. The island didn’t offer a lot of nightlife—which was part of the appeal. When the last ferry left with the day-trippers, the entire island seemed to breathe a sigh of relief and life slowed down.

The hourly cannon shots stopped. The shops closed up, and the horses finished their last trips for the day. Even the bike shops closed up, and those who stayed on island enjoyed a slower pace. Bonfires were lit. There was laughter and quiet family times where people made s’mores. Children chased lightning bugs, and the slap of the water against the shore could be heard once more.

It was my favorite time of night. The hotel visitors retreated to their rooms or went out to dinner at one of the restaurants and walked back in the soft air.

I hired two interns to work the night-desk shifts. It was an easy job. All they were there for really was to watch the door and answer questions. The McMurphy didn’t offer room service, so for the most part the calls consisted of people locking themselves out of their rooms or not being able to open the sometimes humidity-warped windows.

I brought the large pitcher of sangria I had made into the living-room area of the apartment and set it down on the coffee table in the middle of the arrangement of soft chairs and couches. The apartment on the fourth floor of the McMurphy had belonged to my grandparents—Papa Liam and Grammy Alice McMurphy. It was only recently that I had moved the last of their things out and brought in a few pieces of my own. The big furniture I had kept; mixing my handpicked pieces with their old ones created a comfortable synergy between old and new.

“Mr. Devaney is right.” I sat down in my favorite overstuffed rocker-recliner. It had been Papa’s chair, and I always felt comfort when I sat there, as if he were still at the McMurphy, watching over me. “They script those reality shows to have over-the-top drama. The last thing I want to do is have to scavenger hunt the island for bizarre fudge ingredients.”

“What in the world could they possibly ask you to put in fudge that can be found in a scavenger hunt?” Frances asked. She looked so pretty this evening. Her skin glowed. That glow was something I’d noticed only on healthy women over fifty-five years old. There was something so lovely about the delicate, refined skin of a woman in the peak of her life. It was my goal to have skin like that when I was older.

Perhaps, though, it wasn’t simply the care she had taken with her skin. Perhaps it was the fact that Mr. Devaney sat in the chair beside her. They were so cute and discreet. Someone who didn’t know them wouldn’t know what was going on. They sat an arm’s length apart, but their body language gave them away. Frances leaned on the armrest of the couch nearest to him. Mr. Devaney sat with his legs wide, his left foot, clad in the slip-on leather shoes of a retired teacher, touching Frances’s white orthopedic athletic shoes. Her socks were pink to match the scooped-neck tee shirt she had on.

In contrast to Frances’s relaxed outfit, Mr. Devaney wore a pair of pressed dark blue Dockers and a blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The top button of his shirt was unbuttoned to show the pure white T-shirt underneath. How he managed to stay so pressed and clean when he was my handyman was a mystery to me.

Jennifer picked up the pitcher as I sat down on the stuffed ottoman I used as both footrest and extra seating. “You are silly if you pass up this opportunity. Seriously, you can’t buy marketing better than this. If you don’t take it I will, I could use the press.”

“Oh, please,” I said with a wave of my hand. “You already have more business than you can handle. How’s the Postma wedding coming?”

“Oh, it’s going to be grand.” Jenn perked up as she sat back and sipped sangria from one of my bowl-shaped wineglasses. Hers had a pink stem. Mine had a green stem. Frances’s had a blue stem, and Mr. Devaney . . . well, he drank a beer from the dark glass bottle. A man had to have his priorities. “I’ve got the courtyard of the fort reserved. It will be a red, white, and blue affair with cannon fire and fireworks over the lake.”

“That is grand,” Frances said and sipped her drink. “What ever happened to two people standing before God in a church and saying vows?”

“Oh, those days are long gone.” Jenn waved her pink, manicured fingernails. “Ever since the eighties when Princess Diana married her prince, weddings have gotten to be bigger and bigger affairs. It’s a show of wealth now.”

Mr. Devaney frowned. “The marriage should be more important than the wedding. Save your money to buy a house or put your kids through school.”

“Please.” Jenn’s bell-like laughter filled the air, waking Mal from her nap at the base of the couch. “Buying a house is a fifteen- to thirty-year commitment. No one stays married long enough to see the benefits of money they put in a house.”

“You’re jaded,” I said and savored my sangria. It was a mixture of oranges, strawberries, and blueberries in a crisp white wine. I had changed from my candy maker’s uniform to a pair of soft, flowy linen pants in pale blue and a tight, white T-shirt. My feet were bare, and I took note that I should paint my toenails.

“Not jaded,” Jenn said with a sigh. “Realistic. So many people lost so much money in the housing crash. Besides, no one keeps the same job long enough to buy a home and live their entire lives in it.” She shook her head. There was a bit of sadness in her blue eyes. “Life is not like when our parents got married.”

“It wasn’t like when our parents got married either,” Frances said. “We were glad of that. My parents moved in with my grandparents for the first ten years of their marriage. Thank goodness that tradition went away with my generation. I may have killed my mother-in-law.”

Jenn and I were surprised by the vehemence in her voice. “Wow, who knew Frances could be vicious?” Jenn said. I stifled a laugh.

“Now this generation complains that their kids can’t afford to leave home. My kids have married kids living in their basement,” Mr. Devaney said.

“What goes around comes around.” I tried not to snicker. “I haven’t said no to Chef Thomas yet. I may not have to say no. I have to go up to the Grand in the morning for an audition. They want to see how I look on video.”

“You’ll be fine.” Frances shifted slightly so that her leg brushed Mr. Devaney’s. She tossed down the last of her drink and stood. “Well, girls, it was a fun day but this old woman needs to go home and get her beauty sleep.”

On cue, Mr. Devaney stood. “I’ll see you home.” He made a sweeping gesture, and Frances stepped in front of him as they walked to the door. I noted how his hand touched the small of her back.

“Good night, you two,” I said. “See you in the morning.”

We waited for them to close the door behind them and listened for the arrival of the elevators.

“Those two aren’t fooling anyone.” Jenn wiggled back into the couch, her perfectly pedicured bare feet curled up underneath her. Mal jumped up and snuggled beside her.

“I know, aren’t they cute?” I sent her a wry smile. “What are we doing wrong that our love lives are not even close to theirs?”

“Speak for yourself.” Jenn wiggled her right eyebrow. “I happen to have a date Thursday.”

“A date!” I jumped up. “You’ve been holding out on me.” I sat back in Papa’s chair, careful not to slosh my beverage. “Spill.”

“It’s with a certain crime-scene fellow.” She smiled that secret feminine smile of a woman interested in a man.

“Shane! Seriously? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you date a science geek.”

She shrugged and ran her fingers through Mal’s soft, curly fur. “He’s cute and I like to listen to him talk.”

“You don’t have a clue what he’s saying,” I teased.

“That’s the best part,” she replied. “I don’t have to understand. All I have to do is smile and nod and say things like: right? Wow! I know . . .” She laughed again, causing Mal to lift her head and place it on Jenn’s knee.

“You are bad,” I said.

“Hey, I wouldn’t talk if I were you,” she said. “At least I have a date.”

“If you haven’t noticed, I’m a little too busy to date.” I sat back and closed my eyes. “If I agree to be part of the cast of Chef Thomas’s show, I won’t have any time at all.”

“What about that young candy maker who came by this morning looking for a summer internship?”

I opened my eyes and pursed my lips. “I completely forgot about her.”

“I thought so. Her resume is on your office desk.” Jenn raised her arms in a long catlike stretch. “Look at it in the morning.”

“I’m not ready to give up kitchen time to someone else,” I admitted. “I waited my entire life to make it mine and now it’s here.”

“I happen to know your grandfather fostered new talent every year.”

“Yes.” I nodded and finished my drink. “It’s how he took time off to play cards at the senior center. I don’t have a hobby or a regular card game to attend to . . .”

“Maybe you should,” Jenn said pointedly. “All work and no play makes for a dull life. You’re young—you shouldn’t be so serious.”

“The fate of the McMurphy is in my hands. It’s an awesome responsibility and everyone is expecting me to fail.”

“If it sinks, it sinks.” Jenn shrugged. “It wouldn’t be your fault. Your parents aren’t exactly here working in the family business.” She waved her hand at the apartment. “All I’m saying is relax. You’ve been waiting your entire life for this—enjoy it while you have it.”

I got up to take Mal out for her nightly walk. “Come on, Mal. Let’s go out.” I took her halter and leash off the hook by the back door.

Jenn followed me to the back door. “Don’t be mad at me. Someone had to say it. As your best friend, it’s my responsibility to let you know when you get all work and no play.”

I helped Mal step through her halter, clipped on the leash, and pulled doggie-poo bags out of the container near the door. Mal jumped up and down, pressing for the door in doggie excitement. “Your concern is duly noted.”

“Good.” Jenn nodded. “Have fun on your walk. If you find another body, call me. I like to see Shane in his natural environment.”

I rolled my eyes. “I think one body is enough for one day.”

“I’m Allie McMurphy. I am the owner and fudge maker at the historic McMurphy Hotel and Fudge Shoppe,” I said. “Mackinac Island is the fudge capital of the world and I like to argue that my family fudge is the best on island. Our recipe has been around for over one hundred years . . .” I paused in horror. “I’m sorry. I forgot what else you wanted me to say.”

“Talk to the camera,” came a disembodied voice from behind the bright lights.

I turned back to the tiny red dot and tried to imagine a human face. This television stuff was harder than it looked. “I forgot what I was supposed to say next.”

“Talk about the murder you helped solve.”

“Oh.” I dropped my shoulders. “Why?”

“It adds color to the show,” the voice said.

“Come on, Allie, you can do better,” Chef Thomas’s voice came from my right.

I caught myself looking into the dark at my right and instead addressed the camera in frustration. “I don’t see how solving a murder helps me win a fudge competition.”

“It’s not about winning,” the director said. “It’s about what you can bring to the show that will make viewers look forward to the viewing every week.”

“Peter,” I begged. “I’m not the person you want on your cast.”

“Look at the camera.”

“You are exactly the person we need.”

I rolled my eyes. “You owe me for this, Chef Thomas,” I muttered and narrowed my eyes. “Paybacks are hell.”

“Smile and talk about the dead man you found in your utility closet.” Peter’s voice held a tone of laughter, and I sent a stink eye in the direction of his voice.

“While remodeling the hotel this spring, I was horrified to find a dead body in the second-floor utility closet . . .” said the voice behind the camera.

Sighing, I turned back to the camera, gave my best fake smile, and repeated what he said, “While remodeling the hotel this spring, I was horrified . . .”

See? I was naturally bad at the television thing. It’s not that I didn’t want to help Peter out. It was that—well, I was a fudge maker and an hotelier. I wasn’t a reality-television person. Now Jenn on the other hand—she had the looks and the personality for television.

I mentioned that to Peter after my screen test. “Seriously, Jenn’s smart and pretty and personable. You should sign her up for your show.”

“She can’t make fudge like you can,” he said. We sat outside on the veranda of a small café near the Grand Hotel. A waitress in a gray costume with a white cap and a white apron brought us a plate of tea cakes.

“She doesn’t need to make good fudge,” I pointed out and helped myself to a petit four. “She just has to look good on television.”

“You see, that is why I want you on the show. Not a single person in the cast can cook let alone make decent candy. I was hoping to bring you in so that at the very least I wouldn’t have to lie to all of them about who’s the best.”

“You could bring us in as a team—Jenn can do the talking and the interviewing, etc. I can be the silent partner who makes candy in the kitchen.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” he said and made a face as he bit into a cucumber sandwich. “For crying out loud.” He spit out his mouthful. “This place charges more than a five-star hotel. Why can’t they get a decent cook?”

“The food’s not that bad here.” I snagged another cake. “You’re being way too fussy.”

“Humph,” he snorted. “My palate is used to finer food.” He flagged the waitress down.

“Yes, sir?”

“Take this back and tell the cook I want today’s tea platter, not last week’s.”

“Is the food not right?” She asked, her brown eyes wide with concern. “Because chef is very good.”

“Tell him I want fresh or I’ll come back there and show him how to cook.” He handed her his business card and turned back to me. I watched as she scurried off with the plate in her hand.

“I wish you hadn’t done that. I was enjoying the petit fours.”

“You’ll like them better when they are fresh.” His blue eyes glittered knowingly.

“Okay, so tell me the truth. The director hated me, didn’t he?” I held up my hand when he started to speak. “No, don’t try to be kind.”

“He wants you on the show,” Peter said. “And I want you on the show.”

“I’m trying to run a business,” I whined.

“I hear through the grapevine that you have an applicant for assistant candy maker. Is that right?”

“Who told you that? Jenn?” I sat back and crossed my arms and tried not to pout. “I want to make all the fudge. I want it to be my success or failure.”

“Think of her as your assistant. You don’t need to chop all the nuts or cut up the fruits or wash the dishes . . . need I go on?”

I relaxed a little and tapped my finger on my cheek. “I see what you mean.”

He reached over and took my hand in his. “Do this for me, please. I need to be able to have real fudge. It will be good for you and good for your shop.”

I lifted the left side of my mouth in a disbelieving tight-lipped look. “Fine.”

“That’s my girl.” He patted my hand.

Just then the door to the café burst open and a red-cheeked, heavyset man in a chef ’s coat and hat barreled toward us. He had a platter of tea cakes in his hands, and the waitress followed behind, her eyes wide.

“What is the problem with my tea cakes?” the chef said. “I made these myself not twenty minutes ago.”

“If you made them twenty minutes ago, I’ll eat my hat.” Peter went into full professor mode. “The bread is stale on top and soggy inside. The petit fours are far too sweet and I detect ice crystals in their center, which tells me they were frozen. Take me back into your kitchen. Let me see if you keep them in the freezer.”

“No, sir, you cannot go into my kitchen. This is an outrage!”

I watched in part horror and part humor as Peter got up, grabbed the tray, and strode straight back into the kitchen. I could well imagine what would happen next. I remember his “man on a mission for good food” mode. I was thankful it wasn’t me he berated this time.

I paid the bill and left a hefty tip on the table. It would be hours before Chef Thomas would emerge from the kitchen vindicated. The poor cook had laid down a gauntlet in front of one of the masters at the cooking school. I almost winced when I heard plates smashing in the kitchen. Almost.

Instead I walked away as quietly as possible. Seriously, did I want to expose myself to those tantrums again? This time they would be far worse—played up for drama and the estimated one million watchers.

But then again, one million watchers who may be using my Web site and calling in orders for me to ship them fudge so that they could taste what Chef Thomas did.

While Papa had left me with a good chunk of money, with the new Grander Hotel opening its doors, it never hurt to do a little publicity. What was that Jenn said? Bad publicity is better than no publicity.

Speaking of publicity, it was high time I went back to the
Town Crier
and got that ad in the paper. I could also use it as an excuse to ask Liz what new gossip was going around about the bones Mal had dug up from under the lilac bush.

Then a thought hit me—would it be too morbid to make neon orange fudge in honor of whoever lost their toes?

Maybe not.