All Fudged Up (A Candy-Coated Mystery) (4 page)

“Is it true? Did you find Joe Jessop dead in your basement last night?” Mabel Showorthy must have walked in when I was searching my papers. She’d been one of my grandmother’s friends. She owned Agatha’s Family Fudge Shop two blocks down. It’d been there so long no one knew who Agatha was or even if she’d ever been a real person.

“No.” I kept my comments short in hopes she’d get the hint that I was super busy.

She cocked a white eyebrow with suspicion. “No, you didn’t find Joe Jessop dead last night? I’m sorry but I know for a fact that man is currently in the morgue. The coroner’s assistant is my sister’s son-in-law.”

“No, I didn’t find him in the basement,” I said as I continued to dig through papers.

“So, Joe is dead.”

“Yes.” I thumbed through another pile. This time I found a check I’d been looking for and a bill I’d forgotten to pay.

“But you didn’t find him in the basement. Where did you find him?”

I liked Mabel. I did, but right now I didn’t have time to play twenty questions. The clock was ticking and the power company would be closing soon. If I didn’t have power, I wouldn’t be able to convince Frances—let alone Officer Manning—that it was safe for me to spend the night in my own apartment.

“I found him in the second-floor utility closet,” I muttered as I searched. “Ha! Got it!” I squealed with pride and waved the power contract in the air as a conquest. “I don’t really have any other details, Mabel. Officer Manning kicked me out while they did their thing.” I gathered up all the other papers into a neat pile and placed a crystal sugar canister on top to hold them down.

Mabel sniffed and looked around the lobby. “You’re painting the lobby pink and white? Did you run the color scheme by the historical society? This is a historic building. All colors must match original time periods.”

“Yes, I did, Mabel.” I grabbed my purse from behind the reception desk and my jacket from the coat tree that had been moved away from the painters. “I’ll have the power back on soon,” I reassured Benny and headed toward the door. Mabel shadowed me. She was small, standing only at my shoulder, and since I was five foot six that made her about four foot nothing. But she wore her purple velour jogging suit with flare and her white cross-trainer-clad feet helped her keep up with my longer stride.

“They agreed to that color and pattern?” Mabel sounded skeptical. She had fisted weights in each of her tiny hands as she powered along beside me. Her gray hair was cut close to her head in a pixie and made her big brown eyes tilt up. Like a fairy, she enjoyed being ornery.

“Who?”

“The historical committee.” Her voice held a tinge of disgust.

“Yes, I showed them pictures of the interior from 1906.”

“Huh.” She snorted indelicately as we hurried down the street. “Those would be black-and-white photos. However could they tell color?”

“Papa Liam had a family scrapbook where they painted color samples. It was a little faded but I sent it out to the university and they analyzed the composition. Papa brought the report to the committee last fall. It was approved and I have the paperwork to prove it.”

Mabel’s mouth became a straight line. Her smooth, pale skin pulled tight. “I can’t believe Liam wanted to paint the place in candy stripes.”

“Oh, no, that was my idea,” I told her and kept my eye on the prize. The Island Electric business offices were a half a mile down and one block off Main in the Island Administration building on Market Street. “I found the scrapbook in the attic two years ago and Papa agreed that it would be fun to return the interior to the décor of yesteryear.” I waved my hand through the air as if spelling out yesteryear on a straight line.

“They didn’t have wall-to-wall carpeting in yesteryear,” Mabel pointed out.

“What?” I glanced at her. I shouldn’t have. The glint in her eyes said she knew she got me.

“Grace Gregson told me that Emily Proctor told her that you ordered new wall-to-wall carpeting from her husband Mike for your first-floor lobby. That isn’t historically accurate, you know.”

I stopped in my tracks. She had a point. All I’d been thinking when I ordered it was that the old carpet was too dirty and worn to clean in time for the season. Crap. “You’re right.”

Mabel nodded wisely. “Of course I am.”

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed.

“All Things Décor, this is Emily, how can I help you?”

I kept up my pace toward the power company. “Hi Emily, this is Allie McMurphy. I need to cancel my carpeting order.”

“What? Why?”

I glanced at Mabel, who had a smug look on her face. “I’ve been told it isn’t historically accurate.”

“Well, who would say a dumb thing like that?” I could hear the impatience in Emily’s voice. Emily and Mike were ten years older than me and had spent their entire lives on island. They counted on knowing everyone and everything to keep their business going. Which wasn’t hard when there were so few permanent residents.

“I ran into Mabel Showorthy.” I turned the corner and waved Mabel good-bye as she continued power walking down the main drag. Not that you could call the street a drag since there weren’t any cars. “Well, it’s better to say she wandered into the McMurphy to ask about Joe and pointed out a few things about the renovation.”

“What were you doing letting her in before you opened?” Emily griped.

I laughed at the absurdity of it all. It seemed everyone knew that Mabel was a troublemaker but loved her anyway. As for me, I still waited to figure out why they loved her so. So far she was merely a busybody. “The door was open. I have painters working.”

Emily harrumphed. “You know that I can only refund eighty percent of your deposit. The order was already placed. Besides, you can’t seriously be thinking of keeping the carpet that’s in there. It’s worn through in spots.”

“Right. Can Mike stop by this week? I’m thinking there has to be hardwood floors under the carpet. I want them refinished.”

“Oh, good.” I could hear the delight in Emily’s voice and the ka’ching of a cash register going off somewhere. “I’ll send him over at five tonight when the painters are done. Keep in mind that not only do we refinish floors, but we can find you some really nice vintage rugs to go over them. What circa are you decorating for?”

“I’ve got a 1900-era paint scheme going in.” I was three buildings from the power company office.

“Wonderful, I’ll collect some samples and we can talk. Can I pencil you in for Friday?”

“I’m not near my calendar.”

“No worries, I’ve got you down for Friday at ten. I’ll have Mike bring over a reminder card when he comes.”

“Okay . . .”

“Now, while I have you on the phone, you have to give me the scoop.”

“What scoop?” A quick glance at the time on my watch, and I sped up.

“Joe Jessop, silly! Did you really hit him over the head with a metal bucket after he made untoward advances?”

That stopped me in my tracks. “What?! No! Who said that?”

“I heard it from Julia Keystone. Her brother is Rex Manning’s best friend. I assumed she got the story straight from Rex.”

“Well, you assumed wrong,” I said. “Joe Jessop was dead when I found him. I definitely did not kill him and he certainly never made advances.”

“Oh . . .” I could hear the disappointment in her voice. I suppose her story was more interesting than my real one.

“Look,” I said. “I promise, all I did was find him and then I called 9-1-1.”

“But you didn’t,” she pointed out. “You called Charlene direct, which was very strange since everyone knows you should have simply dialed 9-1-1.”

“I did dial 9-1-1. It was Charlene who told me to call her direct.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Because she . . .” I paused. Some things were best kept to oneself. “Because I confused her.”

“Oh, honey,” Emily clucked. “That’s okay. We all have our moments. I’m sure it was the shock of finding a body in your closet.”

“It was a shock.” At least shock was an excuse everyone would understand.

“I know—”

“Rex Manning told you.” I interrupted.

“Not Rex, Julia.”

“Oh, right.”

“Never fear, Allie.” Emily sounded a bit like a superhero or a lawyer stating a case. “Mike and I knew you were innocent. That’s why we’re wearing a green ribbon.”

“What?”

“A green ribbon, silly. Oh, a customer just walked in. I’ve gotta go. Bye now.” The phone went dead in my hand.

I didn’t have time to ponder what she meant by the green ribbon thing. The heat from the power company’s front office hit me in the face as I walked inside.

Everyone stopped and stared. I stood frozen to the spot, surprised to be the center of attention. I glanced down to ensure I had clothes on. Indeed I had on comfy athletic shoes, dark blue jeans, a paint smeared T-shirt, and a spring-green Windbreaker jacket. Maybe it was my hair. I tried to pat it down and make some sense out of the mop that was my dark brown hair. The stuff was wavy enough to never be flat but not curly enough to be called curly. It seemed to always be doing the wrong thing. I usually dealt with it by ignoring it, except to brush it, of course.

I stepped forward while people glared at me. One woman turned her back to me with a huff. Then I noticed Mrs. Brewster stood nearby. She gave me a smile, a wink, and put her thumb in the air. I hesitatingly smiled back. She pointed to the green ribbon on her lapel and rolled her eyes at the purple ribbon on the woman next to her.

I shook my head slightly. Wait. Most everyone in the crowded office had a purple ribbon on. What was I missing?

“Don’t let them get to you.” Mrs. Brewster came over to stand by me.

“Why would they get to me?” I shook my head in confusion.

“Because they aren’t wearing green ribbons,” Mrs. Brewster said. She wore a knit cap on unnaturally dark curls.

I leaned down to get close enough to whisper in her ear. “Why should the purple ribbons bother me?”

“Because, dear”—she wagged her finger under my nose—“the island is taking sides. Green is for the right side and purple is for the other side.”

“Oh.” Well, that certainly cleared things up. Not. “I’m sorry, why are we taking sides?”

“Because you killed Joe Jessop,” she said loud enough that everyone stopped again and stared.

I swear you could hear my heart beating in my chest. “But I didn’t kill him. When I found him in my closet, he was already dead.”

“Oh course he was, dear.” She patted me on the arm. “That’s why I’m wearing green.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“Why, everyone knows that purple stands for the House of Jessop, green for the McMurphys.”

“The House of Jessop?”

“Yes.” She leaned in closer. “With Joe’s death, the feud has escalated. The general store is selling ribbons so that the community can show support for their side. I prefer green.” She winked at me. “Okay, have to go. I’ve got other errands to run. You take care, dear.” She patted me again and walked out, leaving me feeling very alone.

I looked around at the obviously hostile crowd. It was then that I noticed the most important thing of all. The clerk at the front wore a big purple ribbon and a black armband.

I had the sudden sinking feeling that getting my power turned back on was not going to be as easy as showing my account number.

“Best take a number,” said a Chippewa woman of indeterminable age. She wore jeans, a pale blue T-shirt, and a jean jacket. Her black hair had gray strands and hung in that lovely straight fashion that I only dreamed about. She was knitting or crocheting, I wasn’t sure which. Best of all, she didn’t wear a ribbon.

“Thanks.” I followed her directions and pulled a number from the little machine at the end of the roped-off section. I had number 231. The machine at the front of the line displayed the number 150.

I couldn’t help the sigh. I’d better settle in for the long wait.

The building held the prerequisite Victorian décor of the island. The exterior was painted white and looked as grand as a Southern plantation. The floor was old varnished wood. The walls were painted antique white with a ten-foot ceiling that was trimmed with brown woodwork. There was a picture rail, and a few old photos of the island and downtown were framed and hung from strings.

A large desk separated the hostile receptionist from the customers. It took up a full third of the room, leaving the lobby area feeling very small. I took a seat in one of the four plastic chairs that must have been green at one time but now were faded from the sun and worn to a green-tinted white.

I did a fast head count. There were fifteen of us inside—ten wearing purple ribbons.

“Next,” came the call. No one moved. “Next.” The woman at the desk flipped a switch. “Number one fifty-one.” An elderly lady rose. Well, she tried to rise. She was bent practically in half and could barely shuffle her way to the front. I glanced at my watch. It was four-fifteen. “What number are you?” I asked the woman who had pointed out the number system.

“I don’t need a number.” She didn’t even look at me.

“You don’t?” I drew my brows together.

“I’m next.” She had a bag at her feet filled with yarn and her fingers adroitly danced over the thread as if her life depended on it. She pulled extra material from the skein and continued on with the next row.

“How do you know you’re next if you don’t have a number?” I settled back into my chair and crossed my arms. Did I ever remember meeting her when I was a kid? Was she teasing me?

“Numbers are for fudgies,” she proclaimed.

“Fudgies?”

“Tourists.”

“Wait, I’m not a tourist.”

“Yes, you are, or you would have known what a fudgie was.”

“I haven’t heard that term used in a while. But I do live here.”

“That’s what they all say, trying to get out of using their number.” Her fingers continued on with a cable pattern on beautiful blue wool with a hint of white mixed into the weave.

“Seriously, I spent my summers on island,” I protested. “My last name is McMurphy. I own the historic McMurphy Hotel and Fudge Shoppe.”

“You say that like a fudgie.” She seemed unimpressed with my credentials.

“But I’m not.” She was right. I sounded like a pouting five-year-old. “I’m the current owner of the McMurphy. My grandfather left it to me. See, this is the paper with my power account on it.”

I waved the paper in front of her and waited a moment for her to apologize and welcome me home. She simply shrugged. “Fudgie.”

Frustrated, I had to ask. “Okay, if this paper isn’t enough, how do I prove I don’t need a number?”

Her gaze never left her work. “Name the two men in line who are not tourists.”

My eyes grew wide. I rubbed the edge of my nose and studied the five people who actually stood in what appeared to be a line. Three had numbers in their hands. I deduced that meant the bulky bald man wearing a plaid flannel shirt and jeans was a local and the middle-aged man with brown hair that grayed at the sides, who wore a blue polo shirt, Dockers, and boat shoes, was most likely the other local.

I pursed my lips.

“Don’t know, do you?” The corners of her mouth went up slightly.

“I certainly do,” I blustered through and prayed my brain would come up with a name. Luckily the bulky bald guy turned enough I could see his face. “That’s Pete Thompson . . . and the thin guy is . . .”

“A tourist,” she stated.

“Next,” came the call as the old woman shuffled to the side.

The Chippewa woman stood and grabbed her tote.

“Wait!” I held out my hand as if that could stop her. Strangely, she stopped and looked at me, her brown eyes laughing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name. I’m Allie McMurphy.”

“Susan Goodfoot.”

“Next.”

Susan headed for the desk. I sat back deflated. I suppose she was right on some respects. I was a tourist. It was pretty clear I didn’t know who she was and clearly she lived on island. In fact, the only people I knew on island were friends of Papa Liam or Grammy Alice. I was more likely to know everyone at the senior center than the townies standing in line.

I frowned. Why did so many of them wear a purple ribbon? Did they all see me as a stranger? A murderer? Or merely Papa Liam’s silly granddaughter?

“Well, well, well.” Pete Thompson stood in front of me with his hands in his pockets. “If it isn’t the little McMurphy girl all grown up.” He held out his hand. “Pete Thompson, I own the Oakton B and B behind the McMurphy.”

“I know who you are.” I remember the summer I was twelve. Pete followed me everywhere, taunting me, pulling my hair, and generally being a bully.

He barked out a laugh and pulled his hand back. “Spunky, like I remember. Well, little girl, I heard you killed Joe Jessop.” He tapped the purple ribbon on his chest.

I scowled. I was not a little girl. I was thirty years old. “I am going to say this for the last time—” My voice rose loud enough to echo through the lobby. “I didn’t kill anyone. I found a dead man in my closet and called the police. End of story.”

“Really?” His obnoxious grin widened. “I saw the painters out front today. I figure you’re sprucing up the old family place to sell. Maybe cut your losses and run. Am I right? Because I can make you a decent offer.”

I raised my chin. “I’m not selling. The place has been in our family for a hundred and twenty years.”

He rubbed his right earlobe. “Not selling, huh? Don’t tell me you’re going to try to make a go of it. . . .”

I stood. “What if I am?”

His laughter rang through the room, drawing the attention of townie and tourist alike. “Then good luck to you, little girl. That place hasn’t been profitable in fifty years.”

I fisted my hands, the paper crumpled. My eyebrows furrowed. I could feel the heat rising in my face. “You’re wrong. I’ve been over the books. Papa left me enough to prove the place was profitable.”

Pete’s smile widened. “Oh, sweet, sweet, little girl.”

Every time he called me that I swear I wanted to deck him. If he patted me on the head, I was going to take him down. Even if it meant everyone would think I really was a killer.

“Your granddad’s profits didn’t come from the hotel business. I suppose if he didn’t tell you where they came from, then I’ll let you figure that out on your own.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What does that mean?”

“Next.”

“That’s me. Nice to see you again, little girl.” He turned on his heel. “Good luck with the fudge business.” His laughter took the sincerity right out of his words. I swear the other people laughed with him. What did they know that I didn’t?