All Fudged Up (A Candy-Coated Mystery) (11 page)

“What do you think you’re doing here?” Trent Jessop scowled at me. He stood in the doorway of his family home. I could see people mingling behind him. At least they had been mingling, but Trent’s raised voice made everyone stop. You could hear a pin drop. My heart beat in my ears.

“I came to pay my respects,” I said. “I am so sorry for your loss. Here, I brought you a casserole.” I shoved the warm dish into his hands. “It’s three-meat lasagna. You can freeze it if you want.”

He scowled, but took the dish. Unfortunately he didn’t let me in the door, so it was rather awkward. Especially since I got my first good look at him in the daylight up close and personal. All I can say is, oh, man. Trent Jessop was one gorgeous cowboy. He had shoulders as wide as the Mackinac Bridge. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but they were nicely proportional to his body. The guy could wear a suit. It was black, of course, and the white shirt and blue tie were stunning. He even smelled good. Like warm starched linen and aftershave. You know, the kind of scent that was subtle but at the same time made a girl turn around and follow a guy. Yeah, that kind of nice.

He had black hair that curled at the edge of his collar. A strong stubborn jaw with a tick in it. Probably because I wasn’t budging . . . or intimidated by his dark brown stare. The man had thick black lashes any woman would have died to have. It made a girl start to think about having babies with black lashes.

“Well, okay,” I said, breaking the stare off. “I guess you get that I’m sorry for your loss. Heat the casserole at 325 degrees. Don’t worry about returning the dish. It’s not a family heirloom or anything.”

He didn’t say a word. He simply closed the door in my face. I suppose you could say he was the strong, silent type. Or maybe Rex had been right. Maybe it was stupid to come over and try to make peace. Trent was still hurting. I got that.

I stepped off the wide front porch of the painted-lady cottage that was the Jessop family retreat. It sat on a bluff overlooking Market Street and the lake. A girl in a gray maid’s uniform dusted the black wrought-iron fence that enclosed the perfectly manicured lawn. A young man in work clothes trimmed bushes. I walked down the long sidewalk and took three steps before I went through the gate and onto the street. A horse-drawn taxi pulled up filled with people dressed in Sunday black. Men in suits and women in dresses. They were perfectly groomed and looked like money. It was a cultural difference, I guess. People with old money always dressed differently. They wore elegant clothes with the same comfort level as most people wore jeans and T-shirts.

They glared at me as they passed by. I took note of the purple ribbons on their lapels. I, too, wore a purple ribbon. It had been a kind of joke. A hope that they would see that I was taking the thing in stride. But lightheartedness was not in the cards.

I tugged my black sweater around my waist and hurried back to the McMurphy. The streets were lined with pansies and horse-drawn taxis clomped by. There were several bicyclists enjoying the cool spring air. Today the lake was as smooth as glass. It was funny how quickly you became accustomed to the lack of traffic sounds. Instead, the gentle clip-clop of horses filled the air. Unless you were down by the docks. Then you had the sounds of the ferry motors and the crowds of tourists. The shouts of the dock workers.

It’s not like the island was completely sleepy. There were gardeners in the yards and painters touching up the cottage exteriors. The trash wagon rumbled by. Carriage drivers talked to their horses as they lined up waiting for fares. Shop owners swept their stoops while women in maids’ uniforms hurried off to work.

The island was a fun mix of time and place. The no-car rule and gorgeous, painted-lady cottages gave it a solid Victorian feel. Meanwhile, people walked by talking on cell phones or sat on Victorian chairs scrolling through their iPads and tablets. Time and place indeed.

Frances waited for me outside the McMurphy. “Where did you go?” she asked. Today she wore a bright red felt coat and matching red felt fedora with navy-blue trim and a peacock feather accent.

“I took a casserole to the Jessops.” I unlocked the McMurphy and turned on the chandelier that lit the big lobby. Mal got up from her bed inside her crate and stretched. I walked over and let her out. She ran to Frances.

“You did not.” Frances picked Mal up and petted and squeezed her.

“I did so. Joe’s daughter Elizabeth brought me a casserole when Papa died. The least I could do was return the sentiment.” I took the puppy from Frances and put on Mal’s halter and leash. I had read in a dog training book that you were supposed to take them out the moment you let them out of the crate. Since Mal had the unfortunate tendency to piddle, I wasn’t taking any chances.

Frances hung her coat and hat up as I went out the back door and across the alley to the tiny patch of grass. While Mal did her figure eights, I studied the back of the McMurphy. If there was really a secret tunnel in the basement, where would it go?

The McMurphy was built in the Victorian era, when storefronts and hotels tended to be attached. That way there were no fights over property rights. An alley ran down the back of the block allowing access for workers. Across the alley was a pool house that McMurphy guests shared with the Oakton Bed and Breakfast. Papa Liam and Pete Thompson’s grandfather Alfred had pooled their money and built a pool house. Sometime in the 1980s Papa had sold his share of the pool house back to the Thompson family with the condition that McMurphy guests had free access.

There had been talk of putting in a walkway from the second floor of the McMurphy to the pool house, which sat farther up the bluff and faced Market Street. But that had never happened.

Mal finished her business, and I cleaned up after her. We both went back inside to find Frances talking to Rex Manning.

“Hello,” I said and disappeared into the washroom to wash my hands.

“Why didn’t you call me last night?” Frances had her hands on her hips and a frown on her face. “You should not have spent the night alone.”

“I was fine.” I wiped my hands on a towel. “We boarded up the coal bin. Besides, who knows if there even is an entrance through there.”

“It would explain how Joe Jessop was able to come and go at random,” Frances said.

“I can’t believe there was a secret door in the McMurphy that Papa didn’t know about. He lived his entire life here and he did most of the maintenance.” I turned to Officer Manning. “Hi Rex, what brings you into the McMurphy?”

He wore his pressed uniform complete with Kevlar vest and gun holster. His hat was in his hand. His blue eyes twinkled. “Hi Allie, I came by to check out the coal bin. I got Judge Astor to agree to ask your permission to check for any egress through the basement. It could explain how a killer got into the McMurphy to kill Joe.”

“Or could get in and kill you.” Frances picked up Mal and hugged her tight. “Seriously. You should not be staying here alone.”

“It’s okay, Frances. My friend Jennifer is coming in today. I’ve hired her for the season. We need the extra help.”

“I thought you’d hire some interns like your Papa always did.”

“I plan on it, but with the coffee bar and the fudge shop, we’ll need another full-time person on board. That way I can concentrate on building the fudge shop back up.”

“Humph.” Frances snorted. “Can you afford another full-time employee? You still need a new handyman.”

“I’ve got it handled,” I said. “Could you watch Mal while I take Officer Manning down to the basement?”

“Fine.” Frances turned on her heel. “Come on little dog, let’s see what mischief we can get into today.”

I rolled my eyes, and Rex stifled a chuckle. “Thanks for coming back.” I led him through the back and down the staircase. “Do you really think we boarded someone inside the coal bin?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I wanted to come down in the daylight and do a thorough search. I want you to know I didn’t get a warrant. This is a voluntary search.”

“I understand.” I turned on the fluorescent light. There were two window wells in the back, but it was still a bit dark. The light buzzed. The walls held a damp, musty smell. Shadows loomed along the dirt floor. “I’m glad you came. I didn’t want to have to search the walls by myself.”

He flicked on his flashlight and walked a grid from under the stairs toward the sunlight side. There were wood pallets on the floor that held stacks of boxes. I had no idea what all was in them. I imagined it was over one hundred years of old lamps, doorknobs, and other bits and pieces of junk.

I added a note to my mental list to go through the basement next fall and sell what I could to the scrap man and toss out the rest. It certainly wasn’t doing anyone any good sitting in the basement of the McMurphy gathering dust.

Rex nosed through boxes, and I went to Papa’s workbench and looked through old Mason jars filled with screws and nuts and bolts and such. Somewhere along the way, Papa had hung up PegBoard and then created metal holders that raised the glass bottles of metal up on the wall and off the work surface. There was an old band saw, three kinds of hammers, all kinds of saws and wrenches. There was a heavy metal box marked Craftsman. Inside was a wide array of tools.

“That box is worth a fortune,” Rex said over my shoulder. “If I were you I’d get the place inventoried sooner rather than later. It’s hard to tell if someone is stealing if you don’t know what you have.”

I closed the lid of the toolbox. “Right.” He was, I knew it, but I simply hadn’t had time to think about the basement. It took a good two hours of poking around before Rex was satisfied that there was nothing of much use to the investigation in the main part of the basement. We both stood outside the boarded coal bin. It wasn’t a bin, really, it was a small room that was maybe nine by nine foot wide.

If anyone were locked in there, I could imagine they’d be pretty claustrophobic fairly fast.

“Hammer?” Rex asked.

I handed him a claw-head hammer, and he gave me his flashlight. Then he dug under the nails with the forked part until it was snagged under tight, then leveraged the nail up and out of the board. In no time at all the boards were in a pile at his feet. The door to the bin was free.

“You two all right down here?” Frances asked from the top of the stairs.

“We’re good,” I called over. “We just unboarded the coal bin.

Frances came downstairs with Mal tucked under her arm. “I haven’t been down here in years.”

“Do you know if there is some sort of secret passage in the coal bin?” I asked.

“No.” Frances shook her head. “Liam never mentioned any secret passage. I can’t imagine what they would need one for . . .”

“We are reasonably close to Canada,” Rex said.

“So is Detroit,” I said. “It would seem Detroit would be easier than riding on a ferry on and off island.”

“Did you find a tunnel?” she asked and peered at the door.

“Not yet,” I said and took the hammer from Rex and handed back his flashlight. “After you.”

He pulled the gun from his belt and opened the door, careful to check the corners before he stepped in, gun first. “Police,” he said loud and clear. “Come out with your hands up.”

I held my breath and listened. Nothing. Not a single sound. All I heard was my own heartbeat.

“I’m doing a sweep of the room,” Rex continued. “If I were you, I’d come out with my hands up before I got shot.”

“I know I would,” Frances said. She petted Mal, who whined.

I took my dog from Frances and snuggled her against my face in the hope of calming her down or maybe I hoped to calm myself down.

“Clear,” Rex called. I stepped inside the small room. It looked completely different in the daytime. The metal shelves looked dusty, and the jars that sat on them were empty and covered with dust.

“I thought I told Liam to have this place cleared.” Frances tsked. She ran a finger along a metal, gray shelf and lifted it up to show me the dirt. “This is appalling.”

“I’ll hire someone to clean it out,” I told Frances. “Right after we ensure there isn’t some sort of secret passage.”

“What makes you think that anyway?”

“I swear someone was down here moving shelves last night,” I said. “Rex heard it too.”

“There are marks where this shelf has been moved,” he said and holstered his gun. He put his shoulder into moving the shelf, but it didn’t budge. “There has to be some sort of locking mechanism.” He ran his capable, square hands along the underside of the shelf.

I walked the wall, looking for footprints. I felt a definite draft near the back corner and tucked Mal under my arm to take a closer look. On close inspection, there were tiny cracks in the mortar—outlining what looked to be a door about five feet in height and three feet wide.

“I think there’s a door.” I ran my finger along the edge. “There’s a breeze coming through here.”

“We need to figure out how to open it.” Rex came over to see where the door was. “Try pressing on the rocks of the wall.”

On one side of the coal bin was a large metal hook, and a set of heavy chains hung from it. I remember asking Papa about the chains as a kid. He had told me they were from a dark period in the history of Mackinac. I had made up a story in my head about escaped slaves. But the truth was most likely it was used for preparing pigs for slaughter.

We didn’t do that now, but my guess was one hundred years ago when they were feeding hotel guests, the meat had to come from somewhere. Ugh, I didn’t want to think about it. In fact maybe the first thing I’d do when I hired a new handyman was have him remove the chains.

Side-by-side, Rex and I pressed rock after rock to no avail. Frances held Mal and watched us from beside the shelves. “Wait!” I said and walked over to them. “Rex, didn’t you say the shelves were moved last night?”

“Yes.” Rex studied the shelving. “I also remember it was too heavy for me to move by myself.”

“Then how do you know it was moved?” Frances asked.

“There were scrape marks in the dirt.” Rex pointed down and there were indeed marks in the floor that suggested the shelves were swung out and then back into place.

“Maybe the lever is in or on the shelf,” I suggested. The shelves themselves were made of metal and stacked high with old bottles and some boxes. Some of the boxes had begun to rot out. It was hard to imagine anything being a lever. “Didn’t Papa ever throw anything away?”

“Your grandmother would make him spring clean once a year, but the basement was a bone of contention to them. I don’t know why exactly, but she never came down here and he didn’t talk about cleaning it.”

“Sounds like the old man had a secret,” Rex said as he opened and closed boxes on the shelves.

“Whatever the secret was, it died with him,” I muttered. The boxes in front of me were filled with rusted things. Springs and clockwork and old locks. “I need a pair of heavy gloves if I’m going to go through these.”

I stopped and studied the shelf. Whoever came down here knew about the wall door, and they knew how to open it. Those boxes looked like they hadn’t been touched in decades. I sincerely doubted our mystery killer had gone through them. So what would he have touched?

I ran my hand down the side of the shelf. Nothing but cool metal and flakes of rust met my fingertips. I then ran my fingers under the shelves, and on the second from the bottom shelf I found a lever. It felt like the lever inside the hood of a car. I squeezed it hard and the shelf moved.

“Watch out!” I called. Thank goodness it swung out slowly or it would have run over my foot. The shelf swung out in a slow arc revealing a metal handle with a rubber grip resting lengthwise on the floor. “What is that?”

Rex squeezed out from behind the shelves and examined it. “Looks like an old railroad lever used to switch tracks.”

“There isn’t a railroad on the island.” I liked to state the obvious.

“Pull it,” Frances said. Mal barked excitedly as if to agree with her.

Rex looked at me as if asking permission.

“Hey.” I shrugged. “You’re the man with the gun.”

“And no warrant,” he reminded me.

“I doubt there’s another dead body on the other side of this door.” I waved my hand toward the wall.

“And if there is?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.

“I would not let you push that lever. I’m not stupid.” I planted my hands on my hips. “So open it or I will.”

He reached down and grabbed the lever with one hand, his shirt straining across his shoulders, and pulled. The screeching sound was horrible and exactly what I had heard the night before, only this time it was loud enough to deafen me. I put my hands over my ears. Mal barked up a storm as the wall slid back inside itself revealing a small three-foot-by-five-foot hole.

“Aye, Matey, there be treasure,” Rex muttered. I glanced at him, uncertain if I heard him correctly. “What?” he asked. “Have you never seen
Treasure Island ?”

“You know there was some talk about buried treasure on island somewhere,” Frances said, petting Mal to calm her down. “When the British took it from the Americans the fort commander was said to have buried the gold and precious items to keep them out of the British hands.”

“Are you talking about the War of 1812? The McMurphy wasn’t even built yet.”

“All the better,” Rex said as he turned on his flashlight and approached the door. “This looks like it was done before the hotel was built.” He glanced at me. “Do you know what was on the site first?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Papa told me that his great-grandfather bought the land from a merchant’s daughter. The man himself died in a flu outbreak the winter before. The building was torn down and the McMurphy was built over the top.

“Maybe this is more recent than that,” he said as he examined the wall opening. “This mechanism is early twentieth century. It has the look and feel of Art Deco.”

“Like the twenties?” I asked, “Or was that the thirties?”

“My best guess it was during Prohibition, but you’d have to research it to find out exactly.” He rubbed the hinge. “There’s a patent number on here.” He took a small pad of paper out of his pocket and copied the number down. “If I had to guess, I’d say it was used during prohibition, even if it was built before that.”

“What’s inside?” I stuck my head in to see. There was a set of stairs that led down under the basement and the alley behind the McMurphy. “Stairs . . .”

This stairway was cut into the rock, and the ceiling was so low that Rex had to duck his head. The walls were slimy and cold. Water dripped as we descended into the darkness. “Good thing I’m not claustrophobic or anything,” I said.

Rex glanced back at me. “You shouldn’t be down here in those shoes.” His flashlight hit my black pumps. I had not changed since I’d been to the Jessops’ for Joe’s memorial. I still wore my black sheath dress, dark black sweater, and three-inch heels.

“Hey, if a girl’s going to find treasure, she should at least be able to look good doing it.”

“Yeah, well, you won’t be the one having to carry you out of here if you fall and break something.”

The man did have a point.

“I’m not going barefoot,” I said. “And I’m not turning around, so unless you’re going to lend me your shoes . . .”

“Not likely,” Rex said. “These are government issue.”

I scrunched up my face as he waved the light over his black shoes. “To begin with, I highly doubt they issue you shoes. And secondly, those soles look slicker than mine.”

“I guess if we go down, then, we go down together.” He waggled his eyebrows at me.

There was a noise in the distance. “Did you hear that?” I whispered, my fingers wrapped firmly in his shirtsleeve. Funny, but I don’t remember moving toward him. He had his hand on my hip, keeping his body in front of mine.

We both held our breath, but no further sound was made.

“Stay here,” he said and moved forward.

“Right.” I kept pace behind him. I didn’t have a flashlight, and I refused to stand in the dark alone. I thought I could take a robber, maybe even a murderer, but if there were rats down here I refused to wait for them to crawl by me in the dark.

The tunnel, if you could call it that, stopped maybe twenty feet from the McMurphy. If I had to guess I’d say it was the length of the alley. There were two doors at the end, one on the left and one straight ahead.

Rex shone his flashlight on the doors. One looked as if the hinges were rusted and the wood planks on the door were black with rot and dampness. The door straight ahead had fresh hinges. Both doors had old wrought-iron handles.

“Door number one or door number two?” Rex asked, both hands wrapped around his gun, his flashlight balanced on top of the revolver.

“Door number two,” I whispered. My fingers were still clutching his shirt. If we were going to be shot, I was smart enough to use his Kevlar-protected chest as a shield. If that made me selfish, well, I could live with that.

He reached down and checked the door handle. It didn’t appear to be locked. “Police!” Rex put his shoulder into the door, and it creaked open with a terrible screech.

I held my breath as he stepped into a darkened room. The sound of mechanical humming filled the air. The musty, dusty smell was infused with the sharp scent of chlorine. His light bounced off thick pipes, thin pipes, and barrels of chemicals.

“Hello?”

There was no answer as he checked the corners of the warm, wide room. If I had to say how big it was, I’d guess the size of a swimming pool. I searched the wall next to the door and found an old-fashioned push-button switch. I pushed the top button, and two bare lightbulbs burst to light.

“I think we’re under the pool house.” I relaxed a bit and studied the door. “Papa and Mr. Thompson must have connected the buildings.”

“Which could be how your killer got into the McMurphy.” Rex holstered his revolver and turned off his flashlight. “Who would know about the tunnel?”

“I have no idea.” I shook my head. “Whoever Pete hires to work on the pool. Whoever helped build the tunnel and the pool house. It could be anyone, really.”

“Pete Thompson knows about the tunnel, but you don’t?”

“I’m guessing.” I hugged my waist. “Papa Liam sold his rights to the pool house after Grammy died. He said it made more sense to work out a gentlemen’s agreement on use instead of worrying about who would be responsible for insurance and maintenance and such. I agreed. I mean, I was more interested in fudge making than pool houses.”

“I suggest you get a lock on your side of this door,” he said.

“As soon as I hire a locksmith to do that the entire island will know about this tunnel. Sally will want to bring folks down for her haunted tours.” I shook my head. “I can’t afford that kind of insurance.”

“Add it to your list. I don’t like the idea of anyone having that kind of access to the McMurphy.” His face had that serious cop look.

“You and me both.” I blew out a breath. “I’ll talk to Pete.” I didn’t want to talk to Pete. The man was a creepy jerk. But if I were going to be a businesswoman, I’d have to suck it up and learn to talk to creepy jerks. It was all part of life.

“Let’s close the door and go up through the pool house,” Rex said. “I need to see what sort of security the Thompsons have.”

I closed the door and noted that it did have a skeleton key lock. There wasn’t any key. “What about the other door?”

“I wouldn’t worry. It didn’t look as if it’d been used in decades,” Rex said. “The door would probably fall off if you tried to open it.”

He was right of course. Besides, I’d solve the whole problem by walling off the hidden door in the McMurphy.

“Wait,” I said as he opened the door on the other side of the room. I could see that it led to stairs going up. “What if there’s really treasure behind the other door?”

Rex tilted his head and gave me a look that said I was being silly. “Do you think your grandfather or the Thompsons for that matter would be sitting on a treasure?”

I worried my bottom lip to hide my disappointment. “I suppose not.” I closed the door and crossed the room, dodging pipes and barrels. The stairs led straight up to another door, which was locked.

“Step back.”

I went down a couple of stairs and watched as Rex kicked open the door. “Wow, do they teach you how to do that in cop school?”

Rex shrugged. “If I told you all my secrets, then I’d have to . . .”

“Kill me, I know.” I rolled my eyes and followed him through the door. It did indeed lead into the pool house. The door he kicked open was marked
UTILITIES
and
EMPLOYEE ACCESS ONLY
.

Luckily it was off-season and no one was in the pool house. The water itself was still as glass. The pool was built in the 1920s. It was made of poured concrete. In the 1970s they had added a small room on the end and put in a raised hot tub. The cedar hot tub had a blue fiberglass interior, which sat empty waiting on the season. It was in strange and stark contrast to the concrete and tile style of the pool. Beside the utility-room door were two bathhouse doors. The entire building was made of cedar and smelled of chlorine and age. Old windows lined three of the four walls. They still had storm windows on them. The screens had yet to be put in place. In the summer months, the pool house was screened. The cedar board roof would reflect the water from the bottom of the pool.