by Nancy CoCo
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“Oh, well, it turns out he also had a thing for Jessica Kelley and Amiee Hendricks, and Susy Brown and Ashley Kaufman.” She listed four girls then gave up. “Pretty much every girl in my class. He was so cute that he got away with dating two or three at a time.”
“But not you,” I said, a tad horrified.
“No.” She laughed. “Not me. When I found out that Emily Crawford was the only girl he wasn’t dating, I moved on to Mike Hancock.”
“The senior prom date,” I said, recalling a discussion we’d had one late night at our dorm in college.
“Yes.” She nodded. “The senior prom date. Huh. Funny how stuff comes back to you. I haven’t thought about lifeguard training in years and years.”
“Me, neither.” I finished making myself somewhat presentable. “Funny what seeing a person in the water will do to you.”
There was a knock.
“Have you collected my evidence yet?” Shane called from the other side.
Jenn smiled at the sound of his voice. She hopped down, grabbed the plastic bag filled with my clothing and opened the curtain. “It’s right here,” she said as she handed it to him. “Do you want me to tag it for you?”
Shane was a tall, skinny guy with dark horn-rimmed glasses. He wore his dark hair slicked back out of his face. He was sexy in a quiet, super-smart kind of way. I could understand why Jenn was so captured. He was wearing a lab coat over a dark green T-shirt with a Think Geek logo and a pair of skinny jeans. His feet were covered in black and white old style high-tops.
“No, thanks. I have my own system.” He took the bag from her and gave her an appreciative once over. “Thanks, doll.”
“See you later?” she asked and kissed his cheek.
“I’ll pick you up tonight as planned.”
“I hope this whole dead body thing doesn’t put a cramp in your dating style,” I said, trying to remain sincere.
“Oh, no, it actually makes it more exciting,” Jenn said with a laugh. “It gives us something to talk about.”
“Not that I discuss a case with someone outside the system,” Shane said with one raised eyebrow. “That wouldn’t be appropriate, would it?”
“No,” Jenn said with a shake of her head. “It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
I thought I saw her wink at him.
He pinked slightly, cleared his throat, and turned to head out with the evidence. He worked in the county crime department in St. Ignace where he had what lab equipment the county could muster. Some items were months behind in testing, but he did what he could as a one-man crime scene guy.
“Where do we go now?” Jenn asked me as she took back her comb and shoved it into her purse.
“Rex said I could leave as soon as I gave Shane my clothes. When do you have your meeting at the yacht club?”
Jenn had volunteered us for the yacht race fund-raiser. She, my part-time chocolatier, Sandy Everheart, and I were assigned to put chocolate centerpieces on the tables. Each of the pieces resembled yachts enrolled in this weekend’s race. We’d spent two weeks studying pictures of the ships. Sandy then made clay replicas of each ship and cast molds made out of silicon. We’d finished making and pouring the chocolate the night before. All that was left to do with the chocolate was assemble the centerpieces and place them carefully on each table.
Jenn glanced at her wristwatch. “The meeting is in twenty minutes. Not enough time for you to shower and properly dress.”
I sighed. “I’ll come in late with Sandy to put the pieces on the tables.”
“That’s probably a good idea. Proper dress and behavior is important to these people. Be sure you’re both wearing your best chef coats and hats.”
“I’ve got mine cleaned and pressed,” I said dryly. “Please convey to Paige and the rest of the committee my apologies for being late.”
“Oh, I’m sure the news of the dead body has already run through town. They’ll expect you to be late.”
I shook my head as we left the clinic. “How am I ever going to get rid of this reputation for finding the dead?”
“Don’t knock it,” Jenn said. “It’s great publicity. Everyone knows who you are now. Seriously, the old saying No press is bad press is for a reason. You watch. People will be stopping by to purchase fudge all morning.”
“Now that makes it all worthwhile,” I said with a sarcastic tone. “Doesn’t anyone feel for the poor dead girl? I mean she was our age, for goodness sake.”
“She was also very mean,” Jenn said.
I glanced at her. “How do you know that? Have they officially identified the body?”
“Rex is with the family right now,” Jenn said and shrugged. “It’s a small island. News this big gets around fast. The Moores are major players in the yacht club set. It’s going to be an interesting day setting up for the official race day kickoff.”
“Mean or not, no one deserves to die so young.”
Jenn nodded. “I can’t argue with that.” She glanced at her watch. “Okay, I’m heading to the club for the meeting. I’ll see you there?”
“Yes, give me half an hour to shower and get dressed.”
“See you.” Jenn headed down the street to the yacht club, which sat just past the fort and before the Island House Hotel.
I pulled open the door to the historic McMurphy Hotel and Fudge Shop and was hit by the magical scent of chocolate, coffee, and just a hint of age from the building. Frances, my reception manager, sat on the stool behind the reception desk tucked in the far left corner of the room. The McMurphy lobby was large. I had remodeled it just this spring, recreating the original thick pink and white striped walls, refinishing the old wood floors, and adding period replicated area rugs. The back wall housed two sweeping staircases on either side, leading to the second- and then third-floor rooms. The fourth floor was the McMurphy’s business office and the owner’s apartments that were now my permanent home.
The floors shone from last night’s polish. I recently had the area rugs cleaned, which made the entire lobby smell fresh. The reception desk was carefully polished with beeswax. Cubbies for guest mail placement and a locked glass box of unassigned room keys were behind it. The McMurphy held on to the old tradition of metal keys to unlock the rooms. Keys were returned there when people checked out.
Frances had worked as the reception manager for years. She was a retired school teacher and my Grammy Alice’s best friend. After Papa Liam died, Frances had stayed on to help me through the current season. I hoped she would continue in her role until she was ready to retire. I prayed that was a long way off, but it was hard to tell. Frances was in her seventies and sometimes talked of traveling.
In the center of the stairs was an old-fashioned elevator, complete with wire-framed gate that pulled closed. You could see through it as you rose from the lobby. The elevator stopped at the third floor offering only a staircase to reach my apartment. The thought was that would help keep guests from going up to my home. So far so good.
In front of the elevator was a grouping of winged-back chairs and a love seat complete with coffee table. To the far right was a coffee bar with carafes full of coffee twenty-four hours a day along with a wide variety of creams, sugars, and bottles of flavoring. To the front right was the fudge shop, which I had closed off with glass walls from floor to ceiling. I’d left the front open initially, but a few weeks ago, I’d adopted a cat we’d named Caramella—Mella for short. Since then, I’d had the entire fudge shop walled off in glass with a wide swinging door so I could demonstrate fudge making without Mella getting into the area. I didn’t want her getting hurt from the super-heated sugar that went into candy making.
The front left of the lobby held the fireplace and couches along with reading lamps and a sign announcing free Wi-Fi. The idea was that people would stop in to use the Wi-Fi, get a coffee, and hopefully buy a pound or two of fudge to take home with them.
“Allie, are you okay?” Sandy, my cho
colatier and Mackinac native, opened the fudge shop door and came out. The scent of dark chocolate followed her. She’d been putting the finishing touches on the ship centerpieces. Her black hair, pulled back into a long braid down her back was covered by a white chef’s cap on her head. Her eyes were so dark brown to be nearly black and her copper colored skin was smooth over high cheekbones. She was shorter than I was—only reaching my shoulder—and slight of build.
“I’m okay,” I said with a bit of a smile.
“I heard about the girl in the marina. That is bad luck for the yacht race.”
“And for the girl,” Frances said from her perch behind the receptionist desk. She still had a full head of brown hair, which she kept cut in a short bob that swung near her shoulders. Unlike me and Sandy with our black slacks and chef’s coats, Frances dressed more free-spirited in flowing skirts, sweaters, and blouses. She wore bangles on her wrists and silver hoops in her ears.
I grimaced a little, trying for a smile. “Unfortunately I’m making us late. There is lake water in my hair and I need to shower before I can help you take the centerpieces to the club to set them up.”
“You’d better scoot.” Frances looked at me over the top of her purple cat-eyed reading glasses. “Jenn told me that the setup is supposed to be done by one o’clock and it’s already ten-thirty.”
“I’m scooting,” I said as I climbed the stairs. “Sandy, you’ve got everything ready to transport, right?”
“Yes, boss,” she called to me. “I’m finishing boxing things up for the move now.”
“Great. I’ll be down in a jiffy.”
When I opened the apartment door, Mal raced over and jumped on me. Her bobbed tail wagging.
“Hello, love,” I said and scratched behind her ears. “How are you? Did Frances give you breakfast?” I walked over to see the remains of breakfast in her dishes and freshened her water in her bowl. Then I heard a mewl. I turned to see Mella on the breakfast bar watching me. I gave her a quick pet from head to tail. “Hello there, pretty kitty. How are you getting along?” I glanced over to see that she had some food and water as well. We had separated the dishes. Doggie food was kept on the floor and cat food on the countertop.
I ducked into the bathroom to run a quick shower. My thoughts whirled. Was Carin’s death an accident or murder? If an accident, what would cause a girl to slip off a boat and drown? Why didn’t anyone see it happen and try to save her?
If it was murder, who would want to kill Carin Moore? I barely knew the girl, but she was my age. How many enemies could she have made only in her twenties? I suppose those answers would have to wait for the coroner’s report.
In the meantime, Carin’s death would definitely put a damper on the yacht races. I was pretty certain her parents wouldn’t be taking their boat out any time soon.
I toweled off and dressed in my chef’s gear. Perhaps there would be something to find out at the yacht club. People tended to talk around the help as if we weren’t there. Maybe, when we put up the centerpieces, we’d find out what the locals thought of Carin’s demise. Then my questions would be answered. I made a mental note to send her parents flowers. Even though I barely knew her, I did pull her from the water. I felt an obligation to extend my condolences, no matter how meager.
Chapter 3
A heavy quiet filled the yacht club. The building, like most on the island, was over one hundred years old. At one time it was a home that looked out over the marina only a few yards from where I’d pulled Carin’s body from the sea. We were in the dining area setting up circular tables of ten. The carpet under my feet was lush and expensive—a far cry from the McMurphy’s 1970s green utilitarian carpeted hallways—and the walls were painted a muted tan. Hanging from picture rails over the perfect background were paintings of boats and captains.
Someone had opened the beveled glass windows to let in the soft lake breezes. The china and crystal were set to perfection by the staff. Sandy and I carefully unboxed each chocolate ship sculpture and placed them on mirrored glass rounds in the center of the table.
Jenn was in the den area going over the party details with the committee. The event was to celebrate the kickoff of the yacht races and a fund-raiser to cover updates to the kitchen and other public areas.
I left Sandy to put the finishing touches on the work—thankfully, she was a pro at adhering the thin chocolate strings she had made to represent rigging. In the central hall I ran into Rachel Buckhouse, the event committee chairperson.
“Allie, is it true? Did you find Carin Moore in the marina and pull her on to shore?” Rachel was twenty-eight with golden brown hair and a killer body. Her brown eyes held intelligence and sincerity. Unlike me, she didn’t wear a uniform. She had on a pink tweed Chanel skirt and a soft pink sweater set that was most likely cashmere.
“Yes, I pulled a young woman out of the water,” I said, my feelings solemn. “I can’t say for sure it was Carin as I only met her once or twice. And people look . . . different when they are dead.”
Rachel shook her head. “That’s terrible. Just terrible. You must be so brave to jump in the water and pull someone out. I’m not at all certain I could do it. It must have been terribly hard.”
“It was,” I said, remembering the struggle of pulling a hundred and ten pounds of dead weight from the water. I knew that I had bruises in places I didn’t usually think about. “I keep thinking about how awful it is to lose a life so young.”
“I know,” Rachel said with a shudder. “Her family must be devastated, just devastated. I’ve already been asked to set up a wake for her. The Moores are one of the finest families in the club. People will want to grieve with them.”
“So you are certain it’s Carin?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. Irene Lombowski is their housekeeper. She told our cook, Mary Smith, that Rex Manning stopped by and asked them to identify the body before they flew it to the coroner in St. Ignace. The Moores came back an hour later devastated. Poor things. I don’t imagine they will be attending the opening function tonight. It’s going to put a pallor on the entire event. Their table is up near the podium and will be completely empty.” Rachel sighed. “I asked if we should discreetly move it to the back of the room, but Amy Hammerstein gave me a firm no. The Moores’ table is always in that spot and she isn’t going to change that, especially now with this tragedy.” Rachel shrugged. “I can see her point. The committee discussed canceling the dinner, but decided to go ahead with it and have the wake instead.”
“It’s going to be a very quiet party,” I said, thinking about how everyone would be affected by the empty table in the front of the room.
Rachel frowned. “I know, but the show must go on.” She waved her hand as if she were a stage director. “Now tell me”—she leaned in close—“do you think she was murdered?”
“Who was murdered?” Eleanor Wadsworth had come through the foyer into the hall. “Someone’s been murdered?”
“Eleanor, where have you been?” Rachel rushed to the young woman’s side. “You missed this morning’s emergency meeting.”
Eleanor puckered her clear pale brow. “I had a meeting with a client this morning. I told everyone that. What has happened? Did you mention a murder?”
“Oh, dear.” Rachel sent me a look. “Come sit down.” She steered Eleanor toward the bench in the foyer.
Eleanor was five-foot-six with snow white skin and jet black hair. Her blue eyes gave her the look of the fairy tale character Snow White. She wore a chiffon blouse in a paisley pattern and black slacks. “What’s going on?” she asked, confused as she sat on the bench.
I noticed a tremble in her hands as she clutched them together in her lap.
“Carin is dead,” Rachel said.
“Who? Carin Moore? There must be some mistake. I just saw her the night before last.” Eleanor tilted her head and looked confused.
The door to the den opened and out came some of the younger committee members and Jenn. “What’s going on?”
>
“Eleanor didn’t know about Carin,” Rachel said, putting her hand on Eleanor’s shoulder.
“Amy, tell me this is some sort of bad joke,” Eleanor said.
Amy Hammerstein was in her middle thirties and the head of the yacht race subcommittee. She rushed to Eleanor’s side. “Oh, honey, this is a terrible way to find out.”
“You mean it’s true?” Eleanor asked. Her eyes started to tear up.
Jenn leaned toward me and whispered. “Eleanor is Carin’s best friend.” She crossed her fingers. “They were like this.”
“Yes, I’m afraid it’s true,” Amy said. “Allie pulled Carin out of the marina this morning.”
Everyone turned toward me. I couldn’t tell if they thought I was a hero or a villain. I swallowed hard. “I saw her floating faceup just off the pier and I jumped in to save her. By the time I got her on shore and tried to pump the water out of her chest ...” I let the rest trail off.
“No!” Eleanor cried, putting her hand on her mouth in horror. “No,” she whispered. “I just talked to her yesterday. She was fine.” Eleanor turned toward Amy. “She was happy and laughing. James Jamison was coming in today and she was excited. She was certain he was going to ask her to marry him.” She let her words trail off. “Oh, my God, I think I’m going to be sick.”
The ladies gathered around and helped Eleanor to her feet, taking her to the restroom. Jenn and I stood in the hallway and looked at each other.
“Wow,” I said. “I can’t imagine finding out like that.”
Jenn put her hand on my shoulder. “It’s never going to happen, kiddo. Come on. Let’s see if Sandy needs any help.”
I glanced at the bathroom door. Poor Eleanor. How many others would be affected by Carin’s death?
* * *
Later that afternoon, the streets were packed with tourists in for the races or a day on the island. I finished up a fudge-making demonstration and Sandy helped me with the usual flurry of orders that came right after we showed how we made fudge. I had learned how to make fudge—and how to work a crowd—early on by watching my Papa Liam as he demonstrated the McMurphy secret recipe. His dark chocolate English walnut fudge was always a hit and I made it in his honor. When I was upset, it always settled me to step into a familiar routine.