by Nancy CoCo
“Just remember,” he warned. “Everything you say here is on the record and can and will be used in the paper.”
I made the zipping motion with my fingers across my mouth. I was not going to say anything I didn’t want in the paper. I took two steps to the door, and one look at the portal reminded me of when we found the bone . . . and Angus saying he might know who the socks and boots belonged to. “Wait.” I spun back around. “What about this Karus fella Angus thought might be the dead guy?” I asked, my gaze on Liz as she gathered up her gear. “Has anyone spoken to him? Would he know who else wears argyle socks and steel-toed boots?”
“That’s a good question.” Liz stepped around her desk. “It’s a small community. If two people have footwear in common they would bond over it.”
“Maybe it’s someone in his family,” I mused. “I’d be gentle with how you ask him.”
“Oh, I’ll be gentle.” Liz raised an eyebrow. “I’m always gentle. Aren’t I, Grandpa?”
“Gentle as a lamb.” He chuckled.
“More like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, I suspect.” I watched as Liz beat me out the door. I glanced at Angus. “That’s two story ideas I’ve given Liz. The very least you can do is refund the cost of my ad.”
“In your dreams, Missy.” Angus wandered back to his old computer monitor. He sat down and looked over the top of his glasses at me. “Don’t you have fudge to make and a hotel to run?”
“Right.” I turned to go. “You’ll tell me if she discovers anything about those bones, right?”
“This is journalism, young lady. We make our money selling stories. I’m not stupid enough to give it away free. Buy a paper if you want the latest news. Now, go, be gone.” He waved me off. “Don’t let the door hit you in the behind on your way out.”
Mrs. Goode’s Fudge
3 cups of sugar
Dash of salt
cup of cocoa powder
1½ cups of milk
¼ cup butter
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 cups of chopped peanuts
Prepare an 8” x 8” x 2” inch pan—butter the pan, cover the inside with parchment paper or wax paper. Butter the paper and set the pan aside.
In a large, heavy saucepan mix sugar, salt, cocoa powder, and milk. Stir over medium heat until the ingredients reach a full boil. Let boil unstirred until a candy thermometer reads 125°F or the soft-ball stage is reached. Remove from heat.
Add butter and vanilla—do not mix. Cool until the thermometer reads 110°F, then beat until fudge thickens and just begins to lose its gloss. Add peanuts and pour into prepared pan. Cool completely. Cut into 1-inch pieces. Enjoy!
CHAPTER 8
“Miss McMurphy?”
I walked back to the fudge shop after placing my ad and picking up a few items from the grocery store. I was missing Mal. The sound of crowds of people laughing and talking mixed with the clip-clop sound of the carriage horses. The scent of fudge and caramel corn mixed with sunscreen. I was overwhelmed with memories of summers with Papa Liam and Grammy Alice.
“Excuse me,” a young woman put her hand on my arm and stopped me. “Do you work at the McMurphy Hotel and Fudge Shoppe?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m the owner. Is there a problem?”
“Oh, no, no problem.” She was shorter than me, the top of her head reaching the same level as my chin, which made her about five foot one inch tall. She had long black hair and brown eyes and the high cheekbones of a native islander. “I’m Sandy Everheart. I stopped by the hotel first, but you weren’t in.”
“How can I help you?” I asked and tilted my head.
She was slender and wore a white polo shirt and black slacks and wedge shoes with closed toes. “Were you headed back to the McMurphy?”
I lifted the bags in my hands. “Yes, I was.”
“Can we speak in private?”
“Okay, sure, follow me.” We were only a few shops down from the McMurphy, and we wove our way through the crowds of tourists and porters and maids and the gardeners who weeded the many beds of flowers.
She opened the door of the McMurphy for me, and the scent of fudge wafted out. I noted how the crowd weaved toward the rich scent of chocolate. I was glad I had a sign that said FREE SMELLS INSIDE. I also had a free Wi-Fi sign, but it wasn’t as big a draw as I had thought. It turns out people go on vacation to get away from their computers and cell phones. Unless they were high schoolers—then they had perpetual cricks in their necks from staring at the social media on their phones.
Mal came running up, wagging her stumpy tail and leaping on me for attention. “I can’t pick you up until I free my hands,” I told her.
“You should teach her not to jump up on people,” Frances called after me.
“I know, I know.” I put the bags down behind the front desk, then picked Mal up for puppy kisses and hugs. “How do you resist this?” I asked and held her out.
“You can’t spoil her if you want her to interact with the residents.”
“I know, you’re right.” I put Mal down.
Frances wore a lilac print dress she had belted around her middle. Even though it was warmer out today, she wore a solid lilac sweater and sat on her perch behind the counter. “Who’s this?” she asked and nodded toward Sandy.
“I’m sorry, Frances Wentworth, this is Sandy Ever . . . I’m sorry, what was your last name again?”
“Everheart,” she said and stuck out her hand. “Sandy Everheart.”
“Nice to meet you, Sandy.” Frances shook her hand. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“I’m here to see if there is something I can help Miss McMurphy with.”
“Are you looking for a job?” I asked. “Because I just posted an ad in the paper.”
“Were you looking for a candy maker? Because that is what I do.” She smiled at me, and the expression lit up her face. “I’ve been through culinary school and I majored in candy making.” She reached into the notebook she held and pulled out two sheets of paper. “My resume and references.”
“I see.” I glanced at the resume. She graduated from a school in New York. “Top of your class, too.”
“Yes, I’m very good with chocolate,” she said. “For my final project, I created a to-scale miniature of the New York skyline. Here’s a picture of the project.” She took out her cell phone and pulled up a photograph and showed it to me.
“Impressive,” I said. “But I don’t need a chocolatier.” I handed her back her resume.
“No, please keep it,” she said. “I will take any work that you have in the kitchen.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why? It looks like you apprenticed at Li-Lac. In the West Village, New York?”
“I did and I have references.” She flipped through her resume to show me the references.
“You should apply at the Grand or the Island House or even that new Grander Hotel. Surely they can do a better job of using your services.”
“I tried them.” Her shoulders slumped. “They already have their staff hired.”
“I see.” My heart went out to the emotion in her eyes. “With a resume like this you can work anywhere—Chicago, New York, Atlanta . . . anywhere.”
“My home and family are here.” She took her resume from me. “I am taking care of my mother. I can’t go off to some big city.”
“You won’t feel bad about washing dishes?”
Her expression lit up. “No, ma’am. I would be grateful for anything you have available in your kitchen.”
I studied her and thought, what could it hurt to let someone help with the dishes? Especially if I’m running around for a week or two shooting Peter’s reality show. “When can you start?”
“Oh, my goodness, right away. Thank you!” She took my hand and shook it. She then shook Frances’s hand and finally bent down and offered her hand to Mal, who gave her her left paw.
“Look at that,” Frances marveled. “You’ve taught Mal how to shake.”
Sandy laughed. The sound was clear and sweet as bells. “I think she feels my excitement.” She stood. “Seriously, when do you want me to start?”
“Frances will get you the paperwork to fill out,” I said. “This is a seasonal position. I’m not sure we will be open in the winter.”
“Okay, I understand.”
Frances reached into her desk and pulled out employment sheets. “Fill this out and I will need to see your social security card and another form of ID for your personnel files.”
“Okay . . .” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small wallet. “I have them now.”
“Wow, you came prepared.” I leaned against the receptionist desk.
“I had hoped you would hire me.”
“Why don’t you come in tomorrow about seven AM. I usually start making fudge for the counter about five AM and I will have dishes that need to be done.”
“Perfect,” she replied.
“Good.” I patted her on the shoulder and left her to Frances. Jenn would be thrilled to have a chocolatier on staff. I bet myself that within a day or so Jenn would put Sandy to work preparing centerpieces for her events.
The next day I got the call from the producers when I was in the middle of a fudge-making demonstration. “The cold marble tabletop cools the hot candy in just the right amount of time to get a smooth and creamy finish.”
I did a quickstep around the table, scooping the last of the fudge and forming a long loaf. Frances came over and picked up a spare hand scraper.
“You have a phone call from those TV people.” She grabbed a plate and chopped off some of the fudge. Cutting it into bite-size pieces, she nudged me. “I’ll take it from here.”
“I’m in the fudge business, not the television business,” I muttered.
“We can use the publicity,” Frances nudged. “You’ve added another employee and are looking for yet another.”
“Right.” I sighed and put my scraper in the sink and went out to the reception desk, where the phone line’s light blinked. “This is Allie.”
“Hi, Allie, this is Bob Salinger, producer of the Candied Chef series.” He paused as if expecting my happy reply.
“Yes, Frances told me,” I said.
“We would like you to be a cast member on the show. We need you to come down today to do the opening credits photo shoot and to give some introductory information that we will use throughout the show. Be at the Grand Hotel Ballroom Salon 5 by three PM. Wear your chef coat.”
“Today?”
“Yes, today, our shooting schedule is very tight.”
“I’m running a business . . .”
“. . . that will benefit from your being on our show.”
“Right,” I said. “I’ll be there.”
“Good.”
I hung up the phone and glanced over to the white and blue puppy bed inside the downstairs crate. Mal was sprawled out on it, her tummy and feet in the air. “It must be nice,” I muttered.
I glanced back at the fudge shop to see Frances serving up fudge to a crowd of people. I went over to help. I needed to make at least two more batches of fudge before I left. I’d better get to it.
“—And that’s why my boss always made us wear hairnets,” an elderly woman told me as I waited at the edge of the counter, holding her boxed fudge. “Be sure everyone wears hairnets. There are so many terrible things in hair.”
“I thank you for your advice. My baker’s cap works as well as a hairnet,” I assured her. “It meets all health codes.”
“Yes, I suppose it does,” she grumbled and snatched the bag out of my hand. “The gal at the reception desk wasn’t wearing a hairnet. I know she works behind the counter on occasion. I saw her there this afternoon.”
“Right, so in future, I will be sure that Frances and anyone here at the McMurphy Hotel and Fudge Shoppe wears a hairnet prior to handling the fudge. You see we have a clear demarcation between the fudge shop and the lobby.” I pointed out the black-and-white tile floor that butted up against the wooden floor of the lobby. “We also have glass walls on these two sides that meet the inspector’s code. I can assure you that my fudge is made in-house and is served fresh by the cleanest standards this side of a clean room.”
“Yes, well I certainly hope you have a clean kitchen,” she said as I gently walked her out of the front door of the McMurphy.
“You have a nice day, now.” I opened the door for her, and she stepped out, gathering her sweater around her shoulders as a fresh breeze blew in off the lake. Seeing that she was properly distracted, I slipped back into the shop and closed the door behind me. “Free at last,” I said to Frances, who sent me a wry smile.
“You’re going to be late for your photo shoot.” She pointed at the clock on the desk showing that it was five minutes past the time I’d been slated to show up.
“Darn it.” I pulled off my dirty chef coat and hat and grabbed a fresh chef coat out of the linen closet tucked into the back of the elevators. “Do we have hairnets?” I asked Frances as I grabbed the rest of the required objects and walked to the door.
“I’ll get right on those,” Frances called after me.
I went out the back door with a full head of steam. Why didn’t Papa Liam ever use a hairnet?
“Because your Papa Liam had been bald since he was twenty-two years old,” came the reply.
Startled, I glanced up and saw Mr. Beecher making his way toward me down the alleyway between the McMurphy and the Oakton B and B behind it. The old man always reminded me of the snowman from that classic Christmas cartoon. He had a white mustache, laughing dark eyes, and a wide, bald head. He preferred to wear fedoras no matter what the weather. In the heat they were straw; in the cooler weather they were felt. He usually wore a dress shirt, a waistcoat, and a jacket over black slacks with shiny dark shoes. He was as old as Papa or maybe older. I wasn’t sure and thought it rude to ask.
“Hello, Mr. Beecher,” I said. “You startled me. I didn’t realize I had asked that question out loud.”
“Where are you going in such a distracted hurry?” he asked as I reached him.
“I was asked to be part of the reality fudge-off being filmed at the Grand. I was supposed to have been there five minutes ago, but got shanghaied by one of my clients who was concerned that none of us were wearing hairnets.”
Mr. Beecher nodded. “No need for them really. You young people wash your hair much more often than we did back in our day. As long as the hair is clean and pulled back, you’re good.”
“That’s what I told her, but she kept complaining. Some people like the attention they get when you are trying to sell them something. You are a captive audience and they are reluctant to let you go.” I raised my eyebrows. “On that note I’ve got to get going. See you later, Mr. Beecher,” I called over my shoulder.
“Knock ’em dead, my dear.” His words floated back after me.
“I’ll certainly try,” I called over my shoulder. “That is, if they don’t fire me for being tardy.”
CHAPTER 9
“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?”