To Fudge or Not to Fudge (A Candy-Coated Mystery with Recipes) (6 page)

“Good, you’re here,” called a young man in cigarette-shaped black pants and a white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was as thin as a rail, with brown hair that was cut very short in back, but the bangs were left long so that they could be side swept and reached his cheekbones. “I’m Austin and I’m the stylist for the show.” He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into a partitioned portion of one of the ballrooms at the Grand. Inside were racks of clothing and shoes, shelves with accessories, and ten chef ’s hats—one with each person’s name on it. They read from left to right, Bruce, Cathy, Tony, Jabar, Emily, Amber, Erin, Mark, Tim and on the very end was a hat with my name on it—Allie.

There was loud pop music playing and a makeup artist worked on one middle-aged woman’s makeup while a hairstylist tsked over a young man’s faux hawk.

“What are you?” the stylist looked me up and down. “A size eight?”

“Usually a size six,” I answered, feeling that his question was rude considering we just met. “Sometimes an eight. It really depends on the cut.” I tilted my head. “I’m Allie McMurphy, by the way.”

“Yes, yes, I know who you are—I have your picture and your personal file. They’ve got you cast as the girl-next-door. So you really need to be a size four.” He chewed on his bottom lip and gave me that look again. “I can make do for now. But I suggest you drink only water and eat only fresh veggies and broiled chicken or fish. Your hair is good as long as Mike can straighten that wave out. Your cheekbones are good, but you’re a little too pear-shaped for the television.” He brought his left hand up to his cheek and put his right hand on the left elbow and cocked his hip. “I suppose it’s okay if you are overweight. This is supposed to feel as real as possible and the reality is that nowadays girls your age are a little more . . . how do you say it? Fluffy? Is that right?” He looked at me as if expecting an answer.

“I’m not overweight by any means,” I protested.

“Don’t take it personal.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Every single one of us is starving ourselves to look decent on television. Maybe if you spend a couple hours in the gym each day you can tone up and that will help your look.”

“I’m a fill-in replacement,” I told him. “I don’t expect to last much past the first cut.”

“Well, that’s not up to you or me,” he said. “The writers are upstairs as we speak hashing out the story arc. You know—mean girl, crazy man, hunky chef, girl-next-door—which, by the way, is a better part than the original. She was to play the stupid blonde. Since you are not blond and I don’t have the time to make you blond—”

“I don’t want to be blond.”

“That’s beside the point. We already have two blond girls.” He walked me toward a rack of clothing that was marked “girl-next-door.”

“That’s a lot of clothes,” I muttered. “What’re they for?”

“Wardrobe already picked out what you’ll wear for the season. We have to have twenty-two outfits in case the writers decide to keep you in for the full twenty-two episodes.”

“But I thought I was supposed to wear my McMurphy uniform.” I waved my hand over my pink polo and black pant ensemble. “They asked me to bring my own chef’s coat.” I lifted the coat in my hand to show him that I did as I was asked.

“Oh, dear me, no.” He shook his head and studied me again. “No, no, no. We can’t have that dreadful pink polo on television. You’ll clash with everything. Black slacks are so passé, with your figure you should be wearing skirts. How good are your legs?”

“What kind of question is that?” I began to get perturbed by his personal breakdown of my body and my uniform.

“Austin’s just doing his job, Allie,” Peter Thomas came up behind me and brushed a kiss on my cheek. “You can’t take these things personal. Remember that tough skin I gave you in CIA—this program is a good place to use it.”

“Hello, Chef,” Austin gushed with stars in his eyes. “I see you’re wearing the tailored shirt and pant that I suggested. Nice belt . . . no socks, yes. You look fabulous.” He clapped his hands. “You’ll be drawing in the female viewers like crazy this year.”

“Bruce Jones, you’re up for filming,” said a young woman in black slacks and a black T-shirt; she had brown hair tied up in a ponytail, dark slashing eyebrows, and red painted lips. She looked from her clipboard to the room and spotted the young man with the purple-tipped faux hawk. “Oh, no, Tim. They said no way to that hair.” She glanced at the watch on her left wrist. “You have five minutes to make it better. Go!”

Then she looked back at her clipboard. “Cathy Unger you’re up.”

The middle-aged woman stood up and walked toward the young woman, who made a twirl sign with her finger. Cathy did as she was asked.

“You look great,” the woman said. “You’re shooting in Salon D.” Then she glanced my way. “Are you the girl-next-door?”

“She is,” Peter said, patting my back.

“She needs to get dressed and in and out of hair and makeup. She’s up in ten.” The woman’s blue eyes were as serious as the black eyeliner she used. “Let’s go people. No one here is paid to just stand around.”

The room got very busy for the short while she was in it. As soon as the door closed behind her, the tension in the air lessened by quite a bit.

“Wow, she is large and in charge,” I said to Peter.

He let out a roaring laugh. “That’s Caroline Haute. She’s the brains behind the show. She’s the one who ensures everything comes together.” Peter leaned toward me. “She loved your test shots. Especially the story about the old man who died in your attic.”

“You mean my utility closet . . .”

“Whatever, it’s a great story. Now I’m leaving you in Austin’s capable hands. Knock ’em dead.” He winked at me and strode off. It was the second time I had heard that in less than an hour. I hoped to goodness it wasn’t an omen of things to come.

“You look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” Frances said to me as I poured my second cup of coffee and put a plastic lid on it so that I could carry it with me. It was seven in the morning, and I had finished four batches of fudge and two pots of coffee—yes, pots.

“Peter didn’t tell me that shooting this show would take hours. I didn’t get home until two AM, then the alarm went off at five so that I had time to make fudge for the shop before opening.” I sipped the hot coffee and burned my tongue on the thick brew. It didn’t matter—I had that tired brain that made you want to gulp hot coffee in a sad attempt to get the caffeine to your brain. Seriously, they should provide IV caffeine for this type of morning. “I’m hoping a brisk walk with Mal will shake some of the fog out of my brain. I made the first cut. They have us in stereotypical roles.”

“What does that mean?” Frances asked as she sat down at her reservation desk.

“There are eight of us cast members. Let me see if I remember this right. There is Bruce. He’s from Kansas so they have him playing the country boy even though he told me he was from the Kansas City metro area and didn’t know a cow from a bull. Then there’s Cathy. She’s the middle-aged mom. Tony is from New Jersey and gives off the Jersey Shore vibe.”

“What’s that?” Frances asked, her expression perplexed.

“Apparently there is a reality show set on the Jersey Shore. Anyway, then there is Jabar. He is the token African American. Emily is the smart one—she got cut last night.”

“Oh, that’s too bad, I like smart girls,” Frances said and put her elbow on the desk and her chin in her palm and studied me.

“Right?” I agreed. “Apparently smart girls don’t make for good television. So then there is Amber and Erin; both are blond and mean-girl types.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “Jon is a tattooed kid from Seattle and then Tim is heavy set with a purple tipped faux hawk. Jon is supposed to be a free spirit type and Tim is supposed to be crazy and mean, but in truth he is a big teddy bear.”

“Wow, this show is scripted?” Frances seemed confused.

“I can’t talk about it,” I said.

“Then what part are you playing?”

“I’m playing a type not a part.”

“Fine,” Frances waved her hand and straightened. “What type are you playing?”

“The girl-next-door,” I replied. “Kind of boring and easy to cut from the show early. I figure that means tonight unless they decide to get rid of a guy first to keep the numbers of men and women even. That happens sometimes. Anyway, I’m supposed to shoot a cooking segment tonight. They have some crazy ingredients for us to use.”

“What kind of crazy ingredients?” Frances asked as she typed away on her computer, scheduling the reservations that had come in through the Web site during the night.

“I have no idea but it’s supposed to be outrageous—you know, to cause the ‘ugh’ factor, and we are supposed to give the judges something gourmet out of it.” I put Mal’s halter around her little body and then hooked the leash to it. She grabbed the leash from me and ran toward the back door, holding the leash in her mouth. “Mal, no!” I ran after her. She stopped and sat with her leash still folded up in her mouth. Her black button eyes blinked at me to ask why I was taking so long.

She had gotten up with me in the morning but had gone back to her crate to sleep while I made fudge. She knew she was not allowed in the tiled area of the lobby. My greatest fear was that she would get underfoot while I was transferring hot sugar from the copper kettle to the marble tabletop. So while she liked to be up when I got up, there wasn’t anything she could do but sit at the tile entrance and watch me cook. After a while she went back to her bed until Frances came in at seven
AM
.

Frances always welcomed Mal with a treat shortly after I took her for her morning walk. It was a comfortable routine. I’m certain Mal thought she could walk herself, but I refused to be the kind of doggie parent who let her dog out the door and trusted she would come back. Mal was only six months old. She still needed guidance and a firm hand.

I reached down and snatched the leash out of her mouth. “All right, here we go.” I opened the back door and ensured that I stepped out first. The reading I had done on dog training said that according to dog social manners, the leader, or alpha, went outside or inside first. The best way to get your dog to listen to you is to ensure that you are always the leader. This meant being diligent about entering and exiting a building.

“Good morning,” Mr. Beecher said as he walked down the alley, leaning on his cane. “Nice day for a walk. The lilacs are really blooming now.”

“Hi, Mr. Beecher, have you been to the Beanery for coffee already this morning?” I walked Mal to her green spot near the fence by the back of the Oakton B and B.

“Ever since I turned seventy years old, I’ve gotten up early. Not much to do, so I putter around the house until the Beanery opens at six
AM
. I’ve got a standing order of Earl Grey tea, with room for cream, and cinnamon-raisin toast. They make a homemade loaf fresh every morning.”

“Sounds wonderful,” I said as Mal finished up her squat and bounced up to say hi to Mr. Beecher.

She did a pirouette to catch his attention, and he laughed at her antics. “That’s one cute doggie you’ve got there,” he said.

“She’s pretty smart, too,” I said. “If you ever bring a treat make sure she does all her tricks for you.”

“Will do that.” He chuckled. “Have a good morning.” He patted Mal on the head and walked on.

I took the chance to guzzle more coffee, and soon enough Mal was tugging on the leash to get walking. We cut through the alley and up to Market Street. Today we started toward the elementary school along the bike trail that went around the island. I loved that trail. It was a simple eight-mile ride that got you out into the woods and hills that were in the less-developed parts of the island. Of course, Mal and I would not go all the way around. I didn’t have the time. So we wandered near the cottages that faced the lake.

Suddenly Mal followed her nose off the path, through the grass, to a freshly manicured flower bed.

“No, Mal.” I tugged her leash. She was light enough I could pull her back to me if I needed to, but this morning I was tired and more interested in my coffee than Mal’s snooping. My wandering thoughts had me thinking how much we would know about the neighborhood gossip if we humans could sniff it out like the doggies did.

Then I realized I really didn’t want to know everyone’s business. Some secrets were best left alone.

“Get the dog out of the garden.” A harsh voice drew my attention. Mrs. Cunningham, a member of the historical society on the island, came around one of the large maple trees that edged the property.

“Oh, right, sorry.” I pulled on the harness. Mal was having none of it, causing me even more embarrassment. “Come on, Mal, out!” She did pop out then, but this time she had another bone in her mouth. She bounded up and dropped the bone on my shoe.

I blinked at it. She sat and looked at me with a proud expression and a tilted head. “Please be a chicken bone, please be a chicken bone.”

Mal grew impatient and nudged me with her nose.

“I see it,” I said and bent down and picked it up.

“What did your dog take from my garden? I just put that mulch down yesterday. I paid over a thousand dollars for the flowers and mulch and work. If she pulled up one of my new plants you are entirely to blame.” The old woman came running up wagging her finger at me. In her left hand was an iron rake, which she used to push at Mal.

“Stop it!” I ordered and picked up my puppy. “Don’t you dare hit her with that rake or I’ll rake you. She’s just a puppy.”

“That pup ruined my garden. You can’t deny it. I saw her dig up whatever you are holding. It belongs to me.”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t belong to you.” I studied the bone in my hand. “You need to call Officer Manning. This looks like a human bone.”

“A what?” she screeched at me. Mal took the moment to reach out and lick the old woman’s cheek. “Hey!”

“Sorry.” I pulled Mal back. “Don’t get too close—she likes to kiss everyone.”

The old woman wiped her cheek with her hand, and I saw her gaze soften. “I had a pup that was like that once,” she said, her tone just a little softer. “Old mutt would try to French-kiss you every chance she got.” She reached out and petted Mal’s head. “Now what was that nonsense about Officer Manning?”

I put Mal down and handed the woman the bone. It was about an inch long and looked as if it had been cut by a very sharp knife at a very strange angle. “That’s a bone.”

“So it is,” she said. “Probably chicken bone.” She eyed it.

“It’s not hollow enough to be a chicken bone,” I pointed out. “Do you see that odd cut?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Those same strange cuts were on the foot bones Mal found a few days ago under the lilac bush near the
Town Crier.
” I pursed my lips. “We really should call Officer Manning—he’s working on the case.”

“I have no idea how a bone got into my landscaping.” She took a pair of bright blue reading glasses with glitter on the cat-eyed edges and placed them on her nose to get a better look. “Lots of critters living and dying out here. I never thought I needed to bother the cops over a few bones.”

Mal pulled on the leash, drawing my attention. Then she put another bone on my shoe. “Where are you getting these?” I asked her as I picked up another small bone with sharp-angled blade cuts.

“She better not be digging up my garden,” Mrs. Cunningham warned. Her gray eyebrows crumpled and her brown eyes flashed. She forgot that she had been charmed by Mal only a moment ago, stormed the few feet to the garden, and shouted, “Shoo!”

Mal danced around her and did a fast semicircle with another bone in her mouth. Mrs. Cunningham chased after her, which was silly since I had ahold of Mal’s leash. They played hide-and-seek around me. At least Mrs. C had put the rake down.

“Stop it!” I put my hands on my hips and tugged on the leash.

Mal sat down beside me and looked up at the old woman, who wagged her finger at Mal. “Stay away from my flowers.”

“There’s another bone.” I held out my hand, and Mal dropped her treasure in my palm. This one had a flake of bright red polish on it. “That tears it. I’m calling Officer Manning. Animal bones do not have polish on them.”

“Good, call him. I want to lodge a complaint about that animal of yours.” She pointed at Mal. Mal did a pirouette on her back legs, then sat back down and tilted her head.

Mrs. C could no longer stay mad. “Well, heck.” She straightened. “Aren’t you just the cutest thing ever?”

Mal held out her paw to shake.

“What’s she doing?” Mrs. C asked.

“She’s making friends,” I said as my phone speed-dialed Rex’s direct line. The phone rang in my ear. “Shake,” I said and reached down and shook Mal’s paw. “See?”

Mal held her paw out to Mrs. C. The old lady chuckled and shook Mal’s paw, and suddenly they were fast friends.

“This is Officer Rex Manning. Leave a message at the beep.”

“This is Allie McMurphy. I may have a second crime scene.” I hung up and dialed the police station.

“Island Police, this is Charlene, how can I help you?”

“Hi, Charlene, this is Allie McMurphy. Mal has dug up more bones that may be of interest to Officer Manning’s investigation.”

“That’s one busy dog,” Charlene said. “Are you sure it’s a bone?”

“There are at least three, and yes, they are bones. Can you tell Officer Manning to come to 442 Mockingbird Lane?”

“That’s the Cunningham cottage, right?”

“Yes.” I sent a smile to Mrs. C, who was on her knees petting Mal. The puppy had that effect on people. One moment they were expecting the worst, and the next Mal was licking their face and dancing for their attention. It seemed Frances knew what she was doing when she picked Mal out for me.

“Hang on for a moment while I contact Rex.” Charlene put me on hold. “Sunshine Day” played in the background.

I looked at the bits of bone I held in my hand. They were larger than the toe bones, but still smaller than an arm or leg. The cuts on the bone looked more like knife cuts than teeth marks. Mal found both sets of bone bits in fresh mulch. Maybe the body was cut with the mulch.

“Allie?” Charlene’s voice came back on the line.

“Yes, I’m still here.”

“He’s on his way. He said don’t touch anything.”

I studied the bit of polish on the edge of the last bone. “Too late.”