All You Need Is Fudge (3 page)

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.

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.

I left Sandy to man the candy counter when the crowd dwindled away. Two demonstrations a day were enough to keep the business going. Outside, the streets were door-to-door people laughing and enjoying the warm sunshine, but I headed toward the stairs.

Frances looked at me over the top of her glasses. “Are you doing okay?”

“I'm going to be fine,” I reassured her. “I need a little time alone is all.”

“Well, I can certainly understand that. Why don't you make yourself a nice cup of tea.”

“I'm actually headed up to pay bills. It might sound strange, but there is something nice about doing something as mundane as bill paying when I am upset.”

“Make the tea and then pay the bills,” Frances said. “Trust me on this. Oh, and pet that cat.”

Mal popped up from her bed behind the reservation counter where she kept Frances company when I was making candy. It was a safe place for her as I couldn't have any animals underfoot when I was pouring boiling sugar. Quickly, she was three steps up the staircase, wagging her stubby tail at me as if to say,
Come on. Let's go.

“It's not as if Mella is neglected,” I said to Frances. “She gets as much attention as Mal. And if she doesn't, she simply walks over the keys of my computer and demands it.”

Frances laughed. “Fur babies are necessary to keep you grounded in the world and not stuck so much in your head.”

I put my hands on my hips and made a face. “Why would you think I get stuck in my head?”

Frances laughed again. “Honey, you are always creating a new recipe and when you aren't you're puzzling out a murder. If it weren't for your fur babies, you wouldn't even know what time of day it was.”

I made a noise as if to protest her words, but it was only halfhearted. She was right. My mind was on Carin and why she died. I headed up the stairs and met my handyman Mr. Devaney on the third floor landing.

“Do you have a moment?” he asked me.

I was startled by the question. Mr. Devaney was a bit of a curmudgeon. He did a great job as my handyman, but he mostly talked only when he was addressed . . . unless he was with Frances. Those two had a thing for each other. It was kind of adorable.

“Sure,” I said and stopped on the landing.

He glanced around. “Can we go to your apartment?”

“Sure. Is everything all right?” Mal and I headed up the stairs in front of him. “Are you feeling okay?” I paused on the fourth floor landing. “You aren't retiring on me, are you?”

“Let's just talk in your apartment,” he said succinctly. “I'd rather no one have an opportunity to overhear us.”

“Okay. You know Jenn stays in my spare bedroom.”

“Yes, but she's the only other person who I wouldn't mind talking to about this. That said, she's out at the yacht club. I checked.” He walked into my apartment with me and closed the door behind us. “I'd talk in your office, but Frances might pop in. Here, at least she'd knock before entering.”

“Okay.” I picked up the cat from where she sat on top of the nearest chair.

My apartment was small. It consisted of a combined living and dining area with a galley kitchen along the back wall. Behind the kitchen was the single bathroom and side by side bedrooms. My grandparents had lived above the McMurphy my entire life. When I would visit, I would stay in what was now Jenn's room. When Papa died and I moved in, I didn't want to sleep in his room. It was too filled with memories. It wasn't until after Jenn showed up that I moved my stuff in and his stuff out. I still had to go through it and choose what to keep and what to give away. For now, his stuff was boxed up and stored in the attic above me. An attic I checked every Saturday to ensure that no one was squatting in. I'd once discovered a man living up there. Yeah, creepy, right?

“I'm making tea. Do you want any?” I put the cat down and picked up my teapot and put water in it to boil.

“Yes, thanks,” he said to my surprise and sat down on one of the two bar stools that were snugged up against the countertop separating the living area from the kitchen.

Mr. Devaney had a round head and white hair that made a u-shape around his ears. He wore a cotton shirt with corduroy slacks, black athletic shoes, and a navy cardigan with patches on the elbows. He had hazel eyes and a thin mouth set above a strong chin with a dimple in it. He was so smart, I could see why Frances liked him. His gaze held a wealth of wisdom and knowledge.

He used to teach school and once told me that people learned more from making mistakes than being told by someone what they were doing wrong. That's why he didn't say much. He usually waited for me to ask him questions and sometimes he even let me come to my own conclusions.

I grabbed two thick white mugs from the shelf. One had an imprinted picture of a lilac on it from a lilac festival of long ago. The other had a sailboat. I handed him the boat mug and took down a box of assorted teas and offered him his choice. He took a peppermint tea. I took a chocolate tea and tore my package open, laying the pouch of tea in the cup and draping the cord along the side. “So, what's up?”

“I need your help,” he said quietly.

That surprised me. Mr. Devaney was more the helping kind than one to ask for help. He seemed restless and a little out of sorts.

“Sure, anything.” I controlled the urge to put my hand on his and bit my bottom lip to keep from asking if things were all right. He'd already answered that question.

He glanced up at me. “It's Frances—”

My teapot decided at that moment to start screaming bloody murder.

I sighed, grabbed a pot holder, and pulled the pot from the stove. I turned off the burner and poured the hot water into our mugs, returned the pot, and sent him an encouraging look. “What about Frances?”

“You know she and I have been dating.”

“Yes,” I replied with a nod. “Everyone suspected as much.” I dipped my tea bag. “It's okay, you know. You two make a cute couple.”

He cleared his throat and clung to his mug like a lifeline. “Yes, well, at our age there isn't a lot of time to let things go slow.” He paused and studied the mug.

I waited patiently, letting him gather his thoughts.

“Anyway, don't be shocked . . .”

“Okay.”

“I want to ask Frances to marry me,” he mumbled quickly to the countertop.

I wasn't quite sure I'd heard him. “You want to what?” I asked as gently as possible.

He cleared his throat again. “I want to ask Frances to marry me.” He finally looked at me. “I'd like you and Jennifer to help me plan something special for her.”