by Nancy CoCo
“How’d you know we were here?” I asked as he bussed a kiss on my cheek. I kissed his cheek as well. It was a nothing kiss, really. He turned to Jenn and kissed her as well, then stood between us.
“I didn’t. I was headed toward the McMurphy when I saw the crowd and the crime-scene tape. It didn’t take long to put two and two together.”
“What does that mean?” I put my hands on my hips.
He chuckled. “It means that where there’s a crime scene, you are usually somewhere close by.”
“I’m sure there were plenty of crime scenes before I got on island.”
He raised one dark eyebrow and gave me a look that clearly said I was wrong.
“Mal dug up a bone,” Jenn said. “Allie got suspicious when there was a bit of argyle sock hanging off of it.”
“The boot part filled with toe bones was also a big clue.” I hugged myself.
“Where’s Mal now?” Trent asked, looking around.
“Frances came and got her. Officer Manning was afraid she would disturb the rest of the crime scene.”
“You do realize,”—he tilted his head and looked at me—“there weren’t any murders until you moved onto the island.”
“That you know of.” I scowled at him. “Besides, Shane says these are dry remains. They could be too old for me to have been on island when the body was buried.”
“Then why call me about Karus?” Trent said. “Everyone saw him supervising when the horses came home.”
“There’s a possibility the body decomposed in the last month or so depending on conditions,” Shane interjected.
“Angus thought the argyle socks and steel toe of the boot might have belonged to Steven. But since it isn’t him, then the person must have died before I got on island. Right, Angus?”
Angus raised a bushy brow. “Don’t bring me in on this. I’m still carrying my rabbit’s foot.” He winked at me and pulled the white paw out of his pocket.
“I don’t get it,” Jenn said. “Why do you need a rabbit’s foot? That’s not real, right?” She wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“Angus thinks I’m bad luck for old men.” I shook my head. “He’s afraid if he gets too close he’ll end up dead.”
“Well . . .” Trent said with a chuckle.
I gasped at his inference and pushed him. The man was a slab of muscle and barely budged. So I gave him the squinty eye. My expression only made him laugh harder, showing off white, even teeth in his tanned face. “I’ve got fudge to make.” I huffed off. Really, a girl didn’t want a reputation as a man killer. It sort of ruined any dating life. Not that I had time for dates.
“Hey, Allie.” Mrs. Renkle waved at me from her front porch. She had a broom in her hand and swept the dust off the porch.
“Hi, Mrs. Renkle.” I waved back. “How are you today?”
“Terrible. Got a crick in my neck and my lucky knee says there’s a storm coming.”
I tried not to smile. Mrs. Renkle was always terrible and loved telling anyone who would listen about her ailments. “I’ll bring some fudge by,” I offered. “Chocolate is good for what ails you.”
“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?�
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“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?”
CHAPTER 4
“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 T
homas’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.”