To Fudge or Not to Fudge (A Candy-Coated Mystery with Recipes) (3 page)

“That’s not what I heard,” she muttered and continued to sweep.

“I’ll bring it by later this afternoon, say around three?”

“I’ll be taking a nap,” she grumbled back.

“Perfect.” I wagged my fingers at her. “See you then.”

“Not if I die first.”

The crowds picked up along Main Street as the ferry boats came in with their fresh load of tourists.
Fudgies,
they were called by the locals. I loved watching them file off the ferries. Sometimes they looked a bit dazed and uncertain—the regulars come off with confidence, certain in where they are going. Others spoke with the porters and were happily surprised when young men on bicycles biked their suitcases to their hotels. The McMurphy was only two blocks from the dock, so my guests usually wheeled their own suitcases over.

On occasion I paid Oliver Crumbley, my neighbor’s son, to porter—especially when I knew a large party was coming in for the weekend. Today was Monday, usually a slow day, which is why I had time to run to the
Crier
and place a want ad. At least I thought I had time.

“Hey, Allie.” Mary Evans came up behind me. She was about five foot two inches talll, with a gray pony tail, and big blue eyes. Mary was seventy if she was a day old, but, like many senior citizens on the island, she kept trim with her twice-daily walks. Today she wore a pastel green velour tracksuit and had two-pound weights in her hands. She lifted the weights one at a time over her head as she stopped to talk. “What’s this I hear you’re burying people under lilac bushes?”

“I am not burying people.” I took a step back as she switched her weight training from the overhead move to straight out in front of her, nearly punching me in the chest. I noted that a fine mist formed on her forehead. It was a bright day out and the temperature was mild enough to wear a sweater, but if you worked as hard as Mary, you’d break into a sweat. “Mal uncovered bits of a body—bones really. Shane Carpenter thinks they may have been there a while. Anyone you know go missing this winter?”

“No, all my friends are accounted for.” Mary frowned. “I’ll ask around. Was it a male or a female?”

“I couldn’t really tell.” I shuddered. “We found bones mostly. There was the toe of a shoe, but again, hard to tell at this point whether it was a man’s or a woman’s shoe. It was pretty degraded.”

Mary pursed her thin lips. “They might be Indigenous bones,” she shook her head. “You’ll be in a heap of trouble if they are. The Indigenous don’t like anyone messing with their ancestors.”

“Oh, I’m sure they aren’t.” I kept on walking. “They were under the lilac bushes. Whoever planted the lilacs would have found them first if they were Indigenous.”

Mary marched a circle around me, dodging tourists in T-shirts, shorts, and Windbreakers. “Maybe Irene Raiser knows something. Keep me posted.”

“I will if you do the same,” I said and watched as she waved her hand and took off down the street. Mary owned a jewelry store on Main. It was the next block down from mine. Her son, Doug, ran the store these days, but Mary still kept her eyes on her community. I could only hope that when I was seventy I had half as much energy and interest in the community.

I opened the front door and stepped into the turn-of-the-1900s décor of the historic McMurphy Hotel and Fudge Shoppe. It was noon, and everyone who checked out had already left.

Frances Wentworth, my Papa Liam’s front desk clerk and now my hotel manager, sat behind the reservation desk. She had blue, cat-eye glasses, with rhinestones on the corners, perched on the bridge of her nose as she stared through them at the flat screen of a computer.

“We are finally full up for the Lilac Festival,” she said as she clutched the mouse and scrolled through her program. “The Santimores are taking rooms 210 and 212.”

“Yay, now we can afford the payroll.” I took my baker’s white coat off the hook just inside the fudge shop area of the lobby. I slipped my arms in, buttoned the length of it, and rolled up the sleeves. I liked the thickness of the coat and had a handful embroidered with the McMurphy logo as a uniform. People liked their candy makers to wear white. It looked clean. “Where’s Mal?”

I looked around for my errant puppy. She came running out from the back of the reservation counter. Her feet skidded on the polished hardwood floor until she banged up against me. I laughed and picked her up. She had learned that she could slide fairly far and, like a little kid in socks, loved to see if she could angle herself into things.

“Hi, baby,” I said as she licked my face, her little behind wiggling. “How is my big girl?” I didn’t mind picking up Mal with my white chef ’s coat on. She was a white, shed-free dog. As long as I kept her groomed and I washed up after handling her, I’d make health codes.

“So, Mal discovered a body this morning.” Frances slid her glasses onto the top of her head. “How’d that happen?”

“I think the scent caught her interest. She dug under the lilac bushes and pulled out bones.”

“How did you know they were human bones?” Frances asked.

“The big bone was wrapped in a sock and the others had toenail polish.”

“Others?”

“She didn’t find a body per se, she found body parts.” I held Mal away from my face after I remembered what she had been chewing on just a few hours ago. “Remind me to brush her teeth.”

Frances chuckled as I put Mal on the floor. I headed to the reservation desk in the far left corner in front of the left staircase. The McMurphy was built in the 1800s. The lobby consisted of a wide, open area. The fudge shop was in the front right of the lobby when you entered. I had replaced the walls with wood beams and glass half walls, giving the illusion of a wide-open space. To the back were twin sweeping staircases that went to the second and third floor. In the center was a single elevator with a 1920s grill. To the left of the foyer was a brick fireplace and couches.

Welcoming
was the vibe I was going for. We wanted to invite people into the McMurphy, which was why the reservation desk was near the back.

Anyone could come in from off the street and rest their bones (I don’t mean that literally) in the soft couches and overstuffed chairs. I had installed Wi-Fi for their smart phones and hoped that the sights and smells of the fudge shop would ensure they bought at least a taster pound before they left. So far it was a big hit with the fudgies.

Mal poked me with her nose as I walked. It was her way of herding me toward the desk where there was a glass candy dish filled with tiny dog snacks. The snacks were there so that anyone could give her one to help break the ice. Mal had decided early on that anyone coming in the door was going to get her a treat. Unfortunately she was right.

I reached into the candy dish and took out the smallest treat. “I happen to know this is your third—”

“Fourth,” Frances interjected.

I blew out a long breath. “Fourth treat. You have to do your tricks for this one. Sit.”

Mal sat and watched me, her dark button eyes intent on the treat in my hand. “Shake.” She held out her paw, and I shook it. “Up . . . twirl.” I raised my hand, and Mal popped up on her back legs and did a pirouette. “Good. Sit.”

She sat.

“Down.” She went down and spread out on her tummy. “Roll over.” She rolled and I smiled. “Good girl.” I gave her the treat. She snatched it from my fingers. “Ow!”

“You’re going to have to teach her to take it easy,” Frances warned me.

I frowned and stood. “No kidding.”

“Tell me about the body.”

I leaned against the dark, polished wood of the registration counter. “So far all they’ve found are bits of a leg and a foot. Do you have any idea how many bones are in our feet?”

Frances shook her head. She had chin-length hair that was brown streaked with gray. Recently she’d taken to getting it dyed light brown. It framed her face well. Her big brown eyes were wide set, and her nose was thin and straight. She had an elegant look for a woman in her seventies. She had been a contemporary of my Grammy Alice. They had grown up on island together and both had gone to school in St. Ignace before coming back to work on island. “A lot, then?” Frances guessed.

“A lot of bones.” I drew my eyebrows together. “These were all scattered and some were cut on angles as if someone had taken a sharp knife to them.”

“Another murder, then?” Frances tilted her head in thought.

“I don’t know,” I said. “You can’t really prove anything with only a leg and foot bones.”

“Hmm, I heard Angus is writing quite the exposé for the
Crier.
”

I surveyed my domain. “As long as he keeps me off the suspect list I don’t care what kind of story he writes.”

I noticed that the glass candy counter that separated the fudge shop from the foyer was two-thirds empty. “We must have had a rush on the fudge while I was gone.”

“Not really,” Frances said, following me. “Some guy came in and bought twenty pounds.”

“Twenty pounds of fudge! What was he going to do with that? Did he say?” I put my hands on my hips. Who buys that much fudge?

Frances shrugged. Today she wore a lavender sweater set and a flowing spring-green skirt with lavender flower sprigs on it. “He said he was shipping it back home. He also said something about using it as an example of the best in candy making.”

“Okay . . . weird.” I made my way behind the counter that separated the candy-making area from the rest of the lobby and pulled out my copper pot. I always started with a quick wipe down of all surfaces, so I grabbed a clean dishcloth and wiped it out. “What did he look like?”

“Younger man,” Frances said. “Round face, short black hair.”

“That description does not help me since everyone under seventy is younger to you,” I teased and pulled down my sugar.

“That’s true.” She chuckled. “Everyone under fifty looks young to me, but I do have another clue to his identity.”

I stopped pulling out ingredients and turned. “Are you holding out on me?”

Her dark eyes twinkled. “He gave me his card.” In her hand was a white business card that displayed my graduate-school logo.

“Oh, my goodness,” I gasped at the name on the card. “What is he doing here?”

“Peter Thomas is here?” I couldn’t help the excitement in my voice as I held out the business card and read the name. Flipping it over, I saw that he had scrawled out his cell-phone number.

“He’s on island,” Frances said, “but he’s not staying here. Who is he?”

“Only the finest chocolatier in the U.S. He taught a semester at my culinary school,” I said, staring at the card. “The competition was tough to even get into the class. We were all hand selected. I was so excited to be one of twenty students given the privilege of working with him.” I smiled at the memory and my own naïveté. “He was so tough on me. I went home crying every night but determined to stick it out.”

“He sounds like a bully.” Frances crossed her arms. “And a pompous so-and-so to boot.”

“That’s what I thought at first.” I finished measuring out the ingredients. “He was one of those people you start out hating but then learn to love because they bring out the best in you.”

“Love?” Frances raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, love,” I said and tried to remain calm. “He’s also my father’s age, married with a daughter my age.”

“Oh, that kind of love.” Frances turned on her heel and headed toward her station. “In that case, he’s staying at the Grand this month. They are offering candy-making classes in their summer kitchen.”

“He’ll be on island an entire month?” The tone of my voice rose in excitement. If I was to be honest, I was not only happy and excited to see my favorite mentor, but a little nervous. Would my current list of fudges meet his expectations?

“That’s what he said.” Frances went back to her computer. Mal played with a stuffed lamb near the front desk.

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed his number. It went straight to voice mail. “Chef Thomas. Leave your number.” I suppressed a giggle. The message was so typical of the man I knew. Always an economy of words.

“Hi, Chef, Allie McMurphy. Are you free for dinner? You have my number.” I pressed the
END CALL
button and stared at my phone for a moment before slipping it in the pocket of my baker’s coat. I turned to my ingredients and the list of fudges I had scheduled for the week. Somehow what was exciting and new last week seemed dull and boring.

I needed new fudge recipes, and I needed them now. A quick glance back at my nearly empty candy counter, and I blew my wayward hair out of my eyes. First things first—I would make a batch of McMurphy special-recipe fudge. I could do that practically in my sleep. I went to work, letting my mind run free for ideas of fudge that would knock Chef Thomas’s socks off.

Early the next day tourists gathered at the window and milled about inside as the scent of sugar and chocolate wafted through the air. I stirred the kettle with a fat wooden paddle and explained to the fascinated crowd what I was doing.

Part of the appeal of a fudge shop was the childlike wonder of how sugar, cocoa, milk, vanilla, and butter could be boiled down, then poured onto the cooling marble table and worked into thick fudge.

The sights and smells would draw in customers. The theater of it was part of what I loved about a fudge shop. I’d grown up watching my Papa make fudge and thrill tourists with his stories, his deft hand, and the ease with which he cut off scraps and handed out tastes to those who stayed for the entire show.

I lifted the heavy copper kettle and poured the fudge out on the marble cooling table. “The table is made of marble because the stone wicks away the heat at just the proper rate to ensure the fudge sets up without sugaring,” I explained to the crowd. “Have you ever made fudge?”

I saw nods from some members of the crowd. Papa used to get more responses to that question, but then he worked in a time when more women made candy at home. Oh, don’t get me wrong—Mackinac Island had always been a summer bastion for the ultrawealthy. They would come up from Chicago and Detroit to summer in the giant Victorian mansions that were built in the hilltops to draw in the cool lake breezes and fresh country smells.

Still, in the forties, fifties, and sixties more women were home to try their hand at candy making. Nowadays most women expected to work full-time and foods were increasingly prepackaged for efficiency and the health of busy families.

It was a good thing as far as I was concerned. It meant that more women could be candy makers, chefs, doctors, lawyers, professionals. It also meant the old stories were increasingly exotic to the crowd of observers.

I settled the kettle back into its arms and grabbed a sharp metal scraper with a wooden handle. “The marble is buttered first to keep the fudge from sticking,” I said and began the dance around the table, working the fudge by scraping and folding it with the paddle as it cooled. “Chocolate is surprisingly delicate,” I said. “It can easily scorch if the kettle temperatures get too high. Once burned, the entire batch needs to be thrown out.”

“What can you do if your fudge doesn’t set up?” A woman in the middle of the crowd asked. “What did I do wrong? Do I have to throw it away and start over?”

“It’s best to make fudge on a cool, dry day,” I said as I worked the fudge. “Too much humidity and you have to adjust the temperature you work with. It’s also why we use wooden spoons or, in my case, a paddle when we cook the fudge. Metal will absorb the heat and slow down the process.”

I worked my way around the table, pushing the scraper under the fudge and folding it toward the center. “You’ll notice that I lift the fudge and let it pour through the air. This helps to cool the fudge as I work. As for your very good question, the reason it doesn’t set is that it didn’t cook long enough. If you can get it back into the double boiler, boil it some more.” I stopped and eyed the crowd. “If you want to make candy at home it really helps to purchase a good double boiler. The steam from the water bath is best for keeping chocolate from scorching.”

I went back to my work; as the fudge set it became heavier, and I could tell when it was nearly ready simply by how much strain was in my shoulders. “If you can’t recook it, then you can melt it down and add powdered sugar to it. Beat in a quarter of a cup at a time until it sets right up.”

“Do you like that pat-in-pan fudge?” another woman asked. “Isn’t it cheating?”

“I think any type of fudge you make is fine. You don’t have to be an expert bakery chef to make a birthday cake. It’s the same with candy.” I picked up the container of black walnuts, chopped them, and poured them in a generous line down the center of the fudge. Then I took a container of black cherries, chopped them, and poured them on top of the nuts and worked them into the candy.

I ended up with a nice loaf of dark chocolate, black-cherry, and black-walnut fudge. I sliced it up in roughly quarter-pound sections. I carefully cut up bite-size pieces and scooped them on a plate and offered them to the crowd. It was always the best part of the demonstration. It was instant feedback on my work when the audience would have expressions of childlike delight at the fudge tasting.

“A safe fudge,” said a male voice to my right.

I turned with my plate and saw that Chef Thomas was in the crowd. Squealing with delight, I handed the plate of fudge to a man shepherding a bunch of Boy Scouts. Then I threw my arms around Chef Thomas’s neck and hugged him hard. “Oh my gosh, I’m so happy to see you.”

He patted my back and then untangled me from his neck. “Good to see you, too, Allie.”

“Frances said you were staying on island for a month to teach a master class at the Grand Hotel?” I put my arm through his and walked him out of the crowd and over to the pair of overstuffed chairs near the fireplace.

Jennifer came around from the reception desk and took over for me at the candy counter. A great thing about my best friend is that she always knows when to step in and take over. My customers were safe with her.

“Can I get you some coffee or tea?” I asked and waved toward the coffee bar. I hoped to get a barista and a top-of-the-line coffeemaker one day, but for now I had a Keurig machine that offered coffees and teas of every type and flavor in individual cups.

“No, I don’t drink that crap,” he said. “I only drink coffee-press coffee.”

“Oh, right, you hate Starbucks,” I remembered. “Even though they grind your beans and make individual espresso.”

He leaned back in the chair and studied me. “Life is short. There’s no reason to drink anything but the best.”

“I have a French press up in my apartment.”

He shook his head. Chef Peter Thomas was in his late fifties. He was a short man—only five foot five inches tall. Today he wore a blue button-down shirt and a pair of black slacks. Crossing his legs, he let his top knee fall to the side so that his ankle rested on the opposite knee. He wore no socks and dark brown Top-Siders. A gold wedding ring gleamed on his left ring finger. The rest of him was absent of bling.

His dark blue gaze was attentive. “I’m fine.”

“Here.” Frances came over with a bottle of Evian water. She handed it to Chef Thomas.

“Thank you,” he said and took the water, twisted the top off, and drank.

“You’re welcome.” Frances turned on her heel and headed back toward the front desk, her midlength, flowered skirt floated around her ankles. She wore a simple pink tee shirt with a scoop neck. On her arms were three inches of bangle bracelets that clattered at her wrists.

“Tell me about your hotel and fudge shop,” Peter said. “I thought you said your grandfather would be here to teach you the ropes.”

“He was supposed to,” I said and leaned back in the seat. “He died unexpectedly a few months ago so I’ve been learning by trial and error.”

“You seem to be doing a decent job,” he said and took another sip of his water.

“Thank you.” Any kind of compliment was rare from the man. He defined taste and refinement in the restaurant business. “Tell me about the class at the Grand. Have they put you up in a nice room?”

“I’ve got a nice suite with a view of the lake. Not that I’ll have much time to look out the window.” He sipped again.

“Frances says you bought about twenty pounds of fudge yesterday.”

“Yes, I did,” he agreed and then didn’t take the bait I laid out to tell me how good it was.

“Who is taking your class? I didn’t know there was a culinary school on island.”

“Regretfully, I’m not giving lessons to culinary students,” he flicked a piece of imaginary lint off his pant leg.

I drew my eyebrows together, confused. “Then who?”

“It’s for a reality series,” Jenn said as she abandoned the now-empty candy counter. “I heard about it online.” She held out her hand. “Hello, I’m Jennifer. I’m working with Allie for the summer. Helping her get on her feet.”

“I didn’t know she needed help,” he said, stood and shook her offered hand. Then he settled back down and took another sip. For all his protests that he didn’t need anything to drink, he’d nearly finished the bottle of water.

“Jennifer is an extraordinary event planner. She’s working with me to bring in more events to the McMurphy. And hopefully more events to Mackinac Island. She has it in her head that there should be more movie shoots on island.”

“She may be right. Any kind of media event on the island is sure to create more traffic to your shop,” he said thoughtfully. “That brings me to the reason I’m here. We had a contestant drop out. It seems she had a fear of water and wouldn’t suck it up and take the ferry onto the island.”

“Why didn’t she fly?” I asked.

“Fear of flying,” he sounded put out.

“If she is so afraid, why did she try out for the television show?”

“She thought it would be set in Chicago.” He rolled his eyes. “How unimaginative would that have been? Back to the reality series, I told them you would be a perfect addition to the candy-making cast.”

“Wow, really?” I said.

“Yes, really.” He raised one dark eyebrow. “Why not?”

“I’m not exactly Hollywood material.”

“The show is a contest. They’re looking for bakers, not actors. Besides, they thrive on quirky creative types like you.”

I couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or not. I decided it was. “What kind of time are we discussing? I’m pretty busy with everything happening at the McMurphy.”

“Don’t worry, it’s only a few hours every morning. It should give you plenty of time to entertain your fudgies in the afternoon and evenings.”

“Is this one of those reality shows or is this for real?” I gave him the squinty eye.

He laughed heartily. “I did say cast, didn’t I? Not competitors.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Think of it as marketing for your hotel and fudge shop.” He waved his hand. “When this airs you will be able to charge whatever you want for your rooms and it will double or triple your fudge sales.”

I chewed on my bottom lip. “I’m not altogether certain I want to double or triple my fudge sales. I’m the only candy maker here.”