To Fudge or Not to Fudge (A Candy-Coated Mystery with Recipes) (9 page)

“You’re late,” Austin said as I rushed through the door of the Salon D. He pushed his long bangs out of his eyes. Today he wore round black-rimmed glasses. His slim body was covered with a white T-shirt and blue jeans.

“I know.” I made a face and grabbed the outfit he held in his hand on my way to the curtained dressing area. It should have been uncomfortable changing behind a curtain in such a public place, but at this point, I was beyond embarrassment.

“Let me guess, your dog dug up more body parts.” He stood outside the curtain as I ripped off my clothes and quickly dressed in the styled outfit.

“No, the police had Mal sniffing gardens to look for more evidence. I was at police headquarters picking her up.” I stepped out in a denim skirt and checkered blouse. “Really?” I asked as I waved my hand over the outfit.

He held his hands as if they were a camera lens. “Perfect girl-next-door. On to hair and makeup.” He pushed me to the director-chair seats.

“Just don’t braid it, okay?” I sat in the chair. “And avoid the
Gilligan’s Island
Mary Ann look.”

“Ha, Mary Ann is exactly the character you’re cast as.” He grabbed up a brush and brushed out my shoulder-length brown hair. “You’re going to be team cooking tonight,” he said. “It will be very anxiety provoking. Things will go horribly wrong but your team will pull it out in the end. Of course, not before you get bullied by the mean girl and step in to encourage the African American boy.”

“Do you mean Jabar?” I asked as he scraped my hair to the side, put it in a low ponytail, and sprayed all the wispy hairs into place. “I’ve tasted his candy. He’s very good.”

“Not tonight,” Austin said as he placed a chef’s hat on my hair, pinned it into place, and then sprayed so much hairspray I coughed until my eyes watered.

“Justine, get over here.” Austin snapped his fingers at the young blond makeup artist. He checked his watch. “She’s five minutes late. I don’t know if they will want to write that into the script or not. After all, you are supposed to be staying at the mansion on the hill with the others.”

“I live on island, people are going to figure out I wasn’t staying with the others,” I pointed out as Justine dutifully finger tapped foundation on my face.

“Oh, there you are.” Patrick, the redheaded, freckled producer’s assistant, came rushing into the salon. “Cameras are rolling. So what we’re going to do is rush you into the kitchen while Chef Thomas is giving instructions. There’s a red
X
on the floor in front of the two fudge cooling tables. Take your place on the
X
and Chef will rip you a new one. Can you squeeze out any tears?”

I grabbed the script story he had in his hand to quickly figure out what all was going to happen in tonight’s shoot. “I think I can,” I said with a nod of my head. “I know he certainly made me cry while I was in school. I’ll try to relive those moments.”

“Good.” He rushed me out of the salon and down the hall into the kitchen set. “Look apologetic” were his last words as he shoved me into the lights and cameras.

The director rolled his fingers for me to enter. I swallowed when I heard Peter giving instruction. No one was ever late for his class. Lack of punctuality was an insult and the first time he ripped you a new heart. The second time you were thrown out of the class to cool your heels for an entire semester. Trust me, no one wanted that.

It seems my tardiness played well with the writer’s vision for the show. I stood on my spot and waited, wishing I were able to join the rest of the cast behind their respective tables. But no, I was left to cool my heels while a twinge of embarrassment colored my cheeks.

Finally, dramatically, Peter turned to me. He was no longer my friend. The man was once again the soul-searing demigod chef who held your dreams in his hand. “You’re late!”

I squirmed. “I’m sorry, I had an emergen—”

“No excuses!” he shouted. “Do you have any idea what kind of opportunity you are given here? Do you know how many others were rejected so that you had this opportunity?”

“No . . .”

“And you waste my time and the time of your fellow contestants by being late.”

“I apologize.”

“Not good enough! You must be taught there are consequences for blowing an opportunity like the one you have here today.”

I looked at the eight remaining cast members. “Sorry.”

The director held up his hand, which was a cue for “hold your places.” The cameras turned their lenses on the other cast members. The self-taught candy maker looked empathetic while the rest of the cast held various expressions from horror to disgust to glee at the prospect of my consequences.

Then the director made a whirling motion with his finger and the cameras once again turned their cold eyes on me and Chef Thomas.

“This is an elimination round,” Chef Thomas announced. “The challenge is to come up with a fresh savory fudge recipe. Each team will be given two minutes to take two ingredients from the challenge table and the rest of their ingredients from the pantry. Work together or go it alone at your own peril. You have thirty minutes and each team must present one plated savory fudge for judgment.”

The camera panned to the group. The teams were split into guys versus girls, who looked alternately eager and horrified by the variety of cheeses and savory meats on the table.

Then Chef Thomas turned to me. “For your consequence, you are your own team. You will have a five-minute wait period and then you will get one minute to gather what you need from what’s left at the savory table and the pantry.”

The director pointed the lenses on me, and I looked rightfully horrified. Then he pointed to a spot in the corner with a stool and small workspace. I went to the spot as directed.

“Your time begins . . . now!” Chef Thomas said, and the two teams ran to the savory table, grabbing the best ingredients, then rushed to the pantry.

After the appropriate amount of time, the cameras once again pointed at Chef Thomas, who made a big deal out of timing my “one” minute to gather what I needed.

I didn’t waste time thinking about the savory. I was left with Slim Jim sausages and sharp cheddar cheese. Grabbing a bag of potato chips off the shelf, I raided the pantry for the staples in fudge making—sugar, cocoa, and cream.

“Time!”

I went back to work. The idea was to create the basic fudge, then chop the savory into chip-size bits, and garnish with crumbled potato chips for a taste of an American picnic.

The cameras rolled while we worked. The other teams had a person to create the fudge and a person to set up the plates and the rest to prepare the ingredients. Since Slim Jims were already cooked, I didn’t have to waste time cooking bacon or sausage like the other two groups did.

More importantly, I was used to working alone and so my inner timekeeper moved quickly and efficiently. Another part of my consequences was the lack of a candy thermometer and an electric food processor to chop. It was not a problem for me. Papa Liam had believed in the original McMurphy recipe—that meant learning what a true soft-ball looks like in a bowl of ice water.

“Five minutes—” Chef Thomas sounded the alarm. The other teams scrambled. The team of guys was embroiled in a personal dispute over whose recipe was best and how best to crumble bacon and plate the fudge. The female team had their fudge done, cooled, and plated with three minutes to spare. All of the members gave each other a high five.

I ignored the butterflies in my stomach. It was hard not to get caught up in the competition part of cooking. I remembered to breathe through the process and trust the flow.

“One minute,” came the call, and the cameramen closed in on me. I cut my fudge, sprinkled the garnish, and plated as they counted down: “five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one! Time’s up!”

Everyone’s hands went up to prove they were done, and the team members clapped in relief.

Next, I stood at the table in front of the judge. On my plate was a simple piece of red, white, and blue checkered fabric. Three pieces of garnished fudge rested in a pyramid. I glanced at the others’ work.

The female team had chocolate and caramel garnish on the plate. Their fudge was extra creamy vanilla with a brie base and bacon garnish. The quarreling men’s team had two presenters vying for Chef Thomas’s attention. They explained their Swiss cheese garnish and bacon-infused dark chocolate fudge.

The camera moved to me and my simple plate. “It’s an American Picnic theme,” I said. “There are bits of Slim Jim and cheddar throughout. The garnish of salty potato chips helps contrast the savory with the sweet of a simple cocoa fudge recipe.”

The judges were Mrs. Birdwell, head of the historical society, Karla Heys, the owner of the Heys Candy Shoppe on the island since 1875, and Chef Thomas.

The judges gave their impression of each type of fudge. Each judge was directed to give a good or a bad critique. They were instructed to question the quarreling team as to why there were two spokespersons, and they made a big deal about how the Swiss cheese garnish, while yummy, did not qualify as use of a savory ingredient in the fudge. They praised the creamy quality and smoky bacon flavor of the chocolate.

Finally, they came to me.

“Why are you not a part of a team?” Karla Hays asked.

“I arrived late,” I said and stood with my chin up and my hands clasped behind my back.

“Why were you late?” Mrs. Hansen asked me.

“I have no excuse,” I said as I thought of how Chef Thomas worked at school. No reason was a good enough reason to be late. “I worked alone on my project and it shows in the simplicity of my plate.”

“You are excused while the judges debate the merits of your work. Remember this is an elimination round. One or more of you will be going home,” Chef Thomas said.

We all filed into a small room with a waiting room set. Here one camera was placed in the middle of two couches. We were directed where to sit and to act relieved to be done, but nervous about the results.

“You did a good job on a last-minute project,” Cathy, the leader of girls’ team said.

“Thanks,” I replied and slumped into my assigned seat. “I hope the design and flavors weren’t too simple.”

Meanwhile the camera focused on the still-fighting leaders of the guys’ team. The director had worked up Tony, the loudmouthed New Jersey fudge-shop owner, and Jabar, the African American culinary-school graduate.

I glanced at the watch on my wrist. It was two
AM
. I had my fingers crossed that I would be eliminated this time. These late night shoots were killing me.

Thirty minutes later, we were called in for the judgment section. I stood with my fingers crossed behind my back that this silliness would finally be done.

The judges already taped their sections. In fact, Mrs. Birdwell and Karla Hay were no longer in the room. I envied their early release. The director left Peter to give the news of winners and losers. He was directed to read from the script while the cameras focused on the contestants. The two sections would be spliced together in editing and look as seamless as if they were all in the room with us.

Peter started with the vanilla fudge team, expressing his delight at the flavor, texture, and presentation.

“Team A,” Chef Thomas said. “You are the winners of this round. You are free to leave.”

The girls hugged each other in relief and gave high fives as they left the room.

“Team B and Chef McMurphy, one or more of you are going home.”

“And cut,” the director said. “Contestants, move to the closer red
X
s. Set up for close-ups on the contestants.”

We were herded together, and our plated fudges were replaced with copies, made by the prop crew, that would not melt under the lights.

“And five, four, three, two, one . . .” The director pointed to Chef Thomas.

“Team B, your lack of ability to work together on a team assignment is appalling. In the fudge business your egos must be checked at the door. Couple that with your lack of two savory ingredients in your fudge and you are clearly not up to par on this challenge.”

He turned to me. Winked. Then read. “Chef McMurphy, your tardiness is appalling and unacceptable in this competition. The simplicity of your plate was rudimentary. That said, you took your loss of time well and used what was left over to create a surprisingly tasty fudge. Chef McMurphy . . .”

He paused while the director counted down with his fingers.

“You are still in the competition. You may leave.”

I was all set to be eliminated. I must have looked as stunned as I felt. It took me a moment to realize that I was to leave, and I nodded and walked out. We were told to rally in the waiting room, where the single camera caught our reactions to our placements.

Team A gushed over my making it through this section. They hugged me and patted me on my back. I smiled at the praise and expressed my surprise.

Fifteen minutes later the remaining contestants came in. The writers had indeed let go both of the leaders of Team B, leaving only Tim the faux hawked teddy bear of a guy from Indiana and Jon, the younger tattooed kid from Seattle.

After our reactions were shot, we were told we could go home. I changed out of my wardrobe in the ladies’ room, exhausted.

“Chef Thomas really likes you,” the self-taught woman said as I came out of the stall dressed in my yoga pants and T-shirt with the McMurphy logo, the wardrobe on a hanger. She ran a brush through her light brown hair.

“He was my advisor in culinary school,” I said.

“I’ve bet they’ve scripted you to win. I’m Cathy, by the way.” She offered her hand.

“I know, it’s on your hat on set,” I said and shook her hand.

Cathy giggled. “It certainly is. You’re Allie, right?”

“Yes,” I said and smiled back. “I hope they don’t have me scripted to win. I’ve got a business to run and these early morning shoots are killing me.”

“It’s worse if you’re a loser. They take you out to the mansion they supposedly have us housed at and shoot some ‘off-kitchen footage’ to put in between the contests. Jabar and Tony were handed a huge script to flesh out the conflict between them. They’ll be shooting until noon tomorrow.”

“Good Lord,” I muttered and splashed water on my face. “I guess then I should be happy to be let go at only . . .” I checked my watch. “Three-thirty
AM
.”

Cathy laughed. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to the odd hours if you do any more of these reality shows.”

“Have you done others?” I asked, drawing my eyebrows together.

“Sure.” She patted my shoulder. “Everyone on the circuit knows each other. Jabar and Tony have played best friends and worst enemies. It depends on the direction of the show. In reality they’re life partners saving up to buy a house in San Diego. Jabar wants to own a candle shop. Tony wants to counsel boys in trouble.”

“Then why do reality shows?” I asked as I took out a facial wipe and carefully took the television makeup off.

“Reality shows pay well, silly. Why else would we all be doing this?”

“Publicity?” My voice rose up an octave. “That’s why I agreed. Well, that and Peter asked me to fill in for a cast member who didn’t show.”

“Oh, yes, Aimee. She got a callback as a Broadway stand-in. Lucky girl is off the reality circuit.”

“So you’re an actress?”

She laughed. “Sure. Of course. If you get a big enough fan following in reality shows you can move on to talk-show hosting or being a reporter on the entertainment channels. My agent is angling for me to have my own Web series.
Getting Chatty with Cathy.
” She splashed the words across the air, then shrugged. “Web series are the next big thing.”

“So what you’re telling me is that nothing is what it appears?”

“Pretty much.” She applied mascara.

“Wait, if you are all actors, then who makes the fudge?”

“Oh, ha, we memorize the recipes the night before. That was a really great trick by the way . . .”

“What trick?” I asked as I splashed water on my face and patted it dry.

“Coming in late. It gave your character an edge.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Having been singled out more people will be aware of who you are and will begin to either root for or against you depending on their desire. Did they script you as late?”

“No,” I said with a shake of my head. “I was stuck at the police station.”

“Wow.” She lowered her arm and looked me in the eye. “Why? Are you okay?”

“No, I’m fine.” I sent her a half smile. “My dog dug up more bones today. I loaned her to the police to check out other yards and see if she sniffed out any more.”

“Crazy, I thought you finding that dead guy was part of the script.”

“No.” I shook my head and zipped up my duffel bag. “I actually found him.”

“Was it horrifying?”

“It wasn’t pretty. Anyway, I was late because I went in to pick up my dog and get her back home. It took them longer than I thought it would. So no, being late wasn’t planned.”

“Wow, the director acted very fast then. Good show.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Good show.”

“So wait, if the dead guy story is real then you really make candy for a living?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m Allie McMurphy. I run the family business—the historic McMurphy Hotel and Fudge Shoppe.”

“Wow, cool. Tony spent two weeks studying how to make that cheese-flavored garnish. The rest of the cast will think it’s awesome that you made the fudge yourself. A real candy maker . . . that’s so cool.”

“Have a good night,” I said and opened the bathroom door.

“See you tomorrow,” Cathy said and went back to her grooming.

I had to wonder what would happen if word got out that the show was rigged. Would people even care?

 

 

The next morning I stumbled around the fudge-shop kitchen, exhausted but triumphant. I managed to cook up the fudge of the day—a plain chocolate, a dark chocolate, and a caramel. I was placing the last tray in the candy display case when Jenn came downstairs.

“You look like you need this.” She handed me a mug of thick, bold coffee with a splash of half-and-half from the coffee bar that Frances had set out when she came in at seven
AM
.

“Oh my gosh, thank you!” I sipped the coffee and closed my eyes as the warm, creamy beverage slid down my throat. I felt like an addict getting their first hit of the day. Shamefully, my coffee addiction was just that—an addiction. Thankfully it didn’t cause me trouble like it did my mom. She had to limit herself to one caffeinated beverage a day or she got the shakes.

“You came stumbling in very early this morning,” Jenn said and sipped her mug. “Who is he?”

“I wish.” I sat on one of the stainless-steel stools. “Unfortunately it was all work.”

“The reality show?” Jenn sat down beside me, her hair perfectly in place, her makeup at a minimum because unlike me she didn’t have huge bags under her eyes. That was due to a solid eight hours of sleep. “How’s that going? Have they eliminated you yet?”

“It’s going.” I made a face and wrapped my hands around the mug and drew it to my chest. “And no.” I sighed. “It seems I’m creating a ‘fan base.’” I said the last with one-handed air quotes.

Jenn laughed. The sound of it was bell-like and sweet. “How are you creating fans? Well, besides being your wonderful self.”

“That’s just it, I’m not myself. I’m playing the girl-next-door.”

“I can see that.”

“They try to cast to type,” I repeated the words the producer had told me. “Anyway, I was late to the shoot last night.”

“Oh, boy . . .”

“I got waylaid picking Mal up from the police station.”

“Oh, remind me to ask you how that’s going,” Jenn said. “But first continue with this . . . you were late . . .”

“And they made a giant deal over it.” I winced again at the thought. “I’m going to be so humiliated when this episode airs.”

“Really, what happened?”

“I got the ‘no excuses’ talk from Peter in full professor mode.”

“Ouch.” Jenn had heard of Peter in full professor mode countless times from me and my classmates who she was friends with.

“Right? Then the director had me singled out to accomplish a team task on my own with six minutes less time.”

“And you exceeded all expectations.”

“I can’t help myself.” I shrugged. “I get in competition mode and it’s all over.” I frowned. “Come to think of it, I should have failed miserably and let them eliminate me.” I hit my forehead with my right palm. “Darn it.”

“It’s okay,” Jenn said. “I think they might have a twelve-step program for people with your competition problem.”

“I think you’re right. What’s the first step?”

“Admitting you have a problem,” we both said at the same time.

I shook my head and drank more coffee.

The front doorbells jangled as Chef Thomas walked in. “Good morning, ladies,” he said, far too chipper for my liking.

I gave him the stink eye. “I need to have a word with you,” I grumped. “You promised I only had to do one or two shoots. Why didn’t you remind me last night that I was supposed to fail?”

“I told them you would get wound up and actually win the thing. They didn’t believe me.” Peter went to the coffee bar and poured himself a cup of bold, black coffee.

“Hey,” I said. “I thought you didn’t drink non-gourmet coffee?”

He chuckled on his way over to where we sat. “This morning I’ll drink anything with caffeine. This late night taping is going to be the death of me yet.” He sat down next to me. “How’s it feel to win?”

“But I didn’t win,” I said.

“Yes, you did.” He took a slug of coffee. His blue eyes twinkled at me. “No one else could have done what you did in that short of time with those ingredients. It seems I taught you well.”

“What did you have to put in the fudge?” Jenn asked.

“Can’t say.” Peter and I spoke at the same time.

“Not until the episode airs,” I said and touched her arm. “But I don’t want to watch.”

“Interesting,” Jenn said. “When does the first episode air?”

“It’s a late-summer fill-in show. The first date it airs is July third,” Peter said.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this show.” I sighed. “Right now all I want to do is go to bed and sleep for twenty-four hours.”

“What’s the deal, anyway?” Jenn asked Peter. “Why shoot so late into the night?”

“The hotel is quieter at night. That means less background noise for the mics to pick up.”

“Huh, never thought of that,” I said. “So the other members of the team sleep during the day?”

“Yes,” Peter said. “It’s the perfect job for a night owl. I’ve never been able to work all night and sleep all day.”

“I have my day job.” I waved at the full candy counter. “I don’t have time to sleep.”

“Just don’t be late again,” Peter said pointedly. “You’ll be in breach of contract if you do.”

Frances walked into the lobby from the back door. She took Mal’s leash and harness off and let the puppy go. Mal hit the floor running and did her stop-and-slide routine to Peter. He was ready and had braced himself. Only his coffee splashed when she hit his legs with her entire weight.

“Well, hello, Mal.” He reached down and patted her on the head.

When he straightened, Mal went to Jenn and begged for pets from her. Finally she came to me. I picked her up and squeezed her until she squeaked.

“Hey, puppy. Did you have a good walk?” I glanced over to Frances. She left her walking shoes on the mat in the hall and had slipped into more comfortable house shoes.

“She did fine,” Frances said as she went for more coffee. “I heard from the gossip trail today that they are close to identifying the bones Mal dug up yesterday.”

“They are?”

“Mal dug up bones?” Peter asked.

“Yes, it’s why I was late last night. She found a second area of mulch with bone deposits in it. So I loaned her out to the police to see if she could find any more sites.”

“Did she?” Peter asked.

“Yes, she found six sites in all,” I said. “There may be more but last I heard those sites were keeping the police busy.”

“Word is they found a partial jawbone,” Frances said. “There was some distinctive dental work done.”

“Ah, so the mysterious person will soon be announced?” Jenn said.

“According to Mr. Beecher, the authorities think they can find out the ‘who’ in this mystery but are still tracking down the ‘where’ and the ‘why.’”

“I bet it all falls into place when they identify the body . . . well, in this case the bones,” I said.

“Allie, what was going on with Mrs. Finch and Daisy? I heard they were both arrested and detained against their will.”

“Oh, right.” I put my coffee down and stood so that Frances could have my stool. “It was the oddest thing. Rex detained Daisy—the dog.” I added the last bit to clue Peter in on the topic. “She keeps taking the bones that Mal digs up and has to be chased down. Then the last time, she swallowed the evidence so Rex took her in and put her in a cell until she passes the evidence.”

“That’s one way to do it,” Jenn said.

“It was smart,” I said. “There aren’t enough police on one shift to protect the crime scenes. With Daisy locked up they’re certain to stop at least one plunder of their sites.”

“And Mrs. Finch—why did she get arrested?”

“She wasn’t actually arrested. She staged a sit-in in protest of Daisy’s freedom being curtailed. Rex told her she could sit-in as long as she wanted but she had to do it in the locked cell next to Daisy. The last I saw Mrs. Finch was sitting cross-legged on the cot while Daisy sat beside her on the other side of the bars.”

“A sit-in? Now that is a story for the paper,” Jenn said. “Where is Liz?”

“Angus is on it,” Frances said. “I passed him on Mal’s morning walk. He had a camera in hand and was quite happy to create a mountain out of a molehill.”

“I think Liz is still investigating the reality team.” I turned to Peter. “No worries. I told her I was under contract to keep the details quiet. But the last I saw her, she was headed to the Grand to find out what she could figure out on her own.”

“That sounds dangerous,” Peter said. “I understand that the crew is surrounded by security. Which is another reason to shoot at night—no curious tourists wanting to see us film.”