Oh Say Can You Fudge Read online

  MOUTH-WATERING PRAISE FOR NANCY COCO’S CANDY-COATED MYSTERIES

  All Fudged Up

  “A fun book with a lively plot, and it’s set in one of America’s most interesting resorts. All this plus fudge!”

  —JoAnna Carl, author of the Chocoholic mysteries

  “A sweet confection of a book. Charming setting, clever protagonist, and creamy fudge—a yummy recipe for a great read.”

  —Joanna Campbell Slan, author of The Scrap-N-Craft mysteries

  “A delightful mystery delivering suspense and surprise in equal measure. A must-read for all lovers of amateur sleuth classic mysteries.”

  —Carole Bugge, author of the Claire Rawlings mysteries

  “Indulge your sweet tooth as you settle in and meet Allie McMurphy, Mal the bichon/poodle mix, and the rest of the motley crew in this entertaining series debut.”

  —Miranda James, author of the Cat in the Stacks mysteries

  “A sweet treat with memorable characters, a charming locale, and satisfying mystery.”

  —Barbara Allan, author of the Trash ‘n’ Treasures mysteries

  “The characters are fun and well-developed, the setting is quaint and beautiful, and there are several mouth-watering fudge recipes.”

  —RT Book Reviews (3 stars)

  “Enjoyable . . . ALL FUDGED UP is littered with delicious fudge recipes, including alcohol-infused ones. I really enjoyed this cozy mystery and look forward to reading more in this series.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Cozy mystery lovers who enjoy quirky characters, a great setting and fantastic recipes will love this debut.”

  —The Lima News

  “The first Candy-Coated mystery is a fun cozy due to the wonderful location filled with eccentric characters.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  To Fudge or Not to Fudge

  “To Fudge or Not to Fudge was as enticing and tasty as a pan of fudge! The mystery kept me on the edge of the seat, and I love visiting with Allie’s friends and family. I know I will be counting down the days until the next mystery with Allie McMurphy.”

  —Cozy Mystery Book Reviews

  “To Fudge or Not to Fudge is a superbly-crafted, classic, culinary cozy mystery. If you enjoy them as much as I do, you are in for a real treat. The setting of Mackinac Island immediately drew me to the book as it is an amazing location. The only problem I had with the book was reading about all the mouthwatering fudge made me hungry.”

  —Examiner.com (5 stars out of 5)

  “We LOVED it! This mystery is a vacation between the pages of a book. If you’ve never been to Mackinac Island, you will long to visit, and if you have, the story will help you to recall all of your wonderful memories.”

  —Melissa’s Mochas, Mysteries and Meows

  “A five-star delicious mystery that has great characters, a good plot and a surprise ending. If you like a good mystery with more than one suspect and a surprise ending, then rush out to get this book and read it, but be sure you have the time since once you start you won’t want to put it down. I give this 5 Stars and a Wow Factor of 5+. The fudge recipes included in the book all sound wonderful. I am thinking that a gift basket filled with the fudge from the recipes in this book, along with a copy of the book, some hot chocolate mix and/or coffee, and a nice mug would be a great Christmas gift.”

  —Mystery Reading Nook

  Also by Nancy Coco

  All Fudged Up

  To Fudge or Not to Fudge

  Oh Say Can You Fudge

  Nancy Coco

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  MOUTH-WATERING PRAISE FOR NANCY COCO’S CANDY-COATED MYSTERIES

  Also by Nancy Coco

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Caramel Apple Pie Fudge

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Acknowledgments

  Teaser chapter

  Copyright Page

  This book is for George, the wonder dog,

  who brought laughter and joy, protection, and love

  into my family’s life for twelve wonderful years.

  Caramel Apple Pie Fudge

  1 14 ounce can of sweetened condensed milk

  2½ cups white chocolate

  4 tablespoons butter

  ¾ cup dried apple, finely diced

  1 teaspoon vanilla

  1 teaspoon cinnamon

  ½ teaspoon nutmeg

  ¼ teaspoon allspice

  ½ cup caramel pieces, melted with 2 tablespoons milk.

  ½ cup apple cinnamon ice cream topping

  1 teaspoon butter to prep pan

  Butter 8x8x2-inch pan.

  Melt sweetened condensed milk, white chocolate, and butter in the top of a double boiler until smooth. Remove from heat and add apple, vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice. Stir until combined. Pour into pan.

  Alternately spoon melted caramel and apple cinnamon topping on the top of the fudge. Take a butter knife and swirl topping throughout. Refrigerate fudge 3 hours or overnight. Cut into 1-inch pieces.

  Serve in paper candy cups or on a platter. Store in air tight container.

  Enjoy!

  Chapter 1

  June 25

  I was working on a red, white, and blue striped fudge recipe when I got a call from Rodney Rivers. So, of course, I let the call go to voice mail. I mean nothing, but perhaps if the curtains are on fire, interrupted working with hot sugar. I was at the most delicate part of making fudge—the stirring to cool. If you overbeat the fudge while it cools, it sugars. If you under beat the fudge, it’s too soft. Therefore, a random phone call from the pyro technician in charge of the Mackinac Island Star Spangled Fourth fireworks celebrations could be answered later. Right?

  Except I got caught up in the fudge.

  Three hours later, still not happy with the recipe, I noticed the blinking light on my cell phone and figured I’d better call up the voice mail.

  “Allie, we’ve got a problem. Meet me at the fireworks warehouse as soon as possible.” Rodney sounded angry. “The entire program is in ruins.”

  Oh, man, that was not good. I’d had to fight my way onto the Star Spangled Fourth event committee in the first place. It was only because old man Slauser had died in May that I had been able to join the committee and take over the fireworks program. It was all part of my ongoing plan to become an upstanding member of Mackinac Island society.

  Message two came up.

  “Allie, answer your phone, will you? This is serious and time sensitive.” Rodney’s tone had gone from angry to desperate. “The entire back row of fireworks has been tampered with—Hey, you. What are you doing here? Are you responsible for—” The phone went eerily dead.

  Well, that certainly couldn’t be good. I dialed the call-back number, but it went straight to voice mail. I left a message. “Hey, Mr. Rivers, this is Allie McMurphy. I just got your voice mails. I was in the middle of making fudge or I would have answered sooner.” I winced at my ow
n rambling message. As the boss, I was never supposed to make excuses or apologize. “I’m headed to the warehouse. Call me if you’re no longer there. Otherwise I’m coming down to see what I can do to help.” I hung up my phone. There was a third message, but I assumed that it was from Rodney Rivers as well. He sounded insistent. I didn’t take the time to listen any further. Instead I stripped out of my chef’s jacket, which was stiff from sugar and candy ingredients that tended to float in the air whenever I was inventing something new.

  The lobby door to the McMurphy was open to let in the soft, fresh lake air which blew the summer white linen curtains softly.

  I called to my reservation manager. “Frances, I need to meet Mr. Rivers at the fireworks warehouse. Can you cover for me until Sandy comes in?”

  “Sure can,” Frances answered from her perch behind the reservation desk. “What’s up?”

  I’d inherited Frances along with the Historic McMurphy Hotel and Fudge Shop when my Papa Liam died. She had worked the busy summer seasons for Papa and Grammy Alice for as long as I could remember.

  “Mr. Rivers didn’t say exactly, but there may be something wrong with some of the fireworks.”

  “Do you want me to call the fire department?” Frances looked at me over the top of her dark purple reading glasses. It was hard to tell she was in her seventies. She kept her brunette hair immaculate and her skin glowed in a way I hoped mine would at her age.

  “No, I think if it were bad enough for the fire department, Mr. Rivers would have called them. He’s an expert at that kind of thing and has always stressed safety first.”

  My bichon-poo puppy, Marshmallow—Mal for short—got up from her comfortable spot in the pink doggie bed beside Frances. She stretched her back legs in a manor I liked to call doggie yoga—it mimicked the downward dog position—and trotted over to me then begged to be picked up. When I ignored the blatant display of cuteness, she poked my black cotton covered leg with her nose—a sign she knew I was going out and she expected me to take her.

  “No, Mal. It’s too far for you,” I said and gathered up my keys and things in a small bag with shoestring handles that turned it into a backpack.

  She sat, sighed loudly, and turned back to her bed.

  “I’ll call as soon as I find out more.” I pulled the bag over my shoulders. “Let Sandy know we’re short on the chocolate cherry and the cotton candy fudge.”

  “Will do.” Frances went back to her computer. She had been my Grammy Alice’s best friend. She’d worked summers for my grandparents for something fun to do and to make a little extra money. When she retired from teaching, she came to work for Papa Liam full-time. When Papa died in March, Frances had stayed to help me navigate the ins and outs of running the McMurphy.

  I counted on her to introduce me to our regular customers. Some had been summering at the McMurphy for generations. Others just a season or two, but Frances remembered them all.

  I grabbed my thin blue-jean jacket from a hook near the back door and put it on over the top of my pink McMurphy polo shirt and went out the back door of the hotel. Part of the appeal of Mackinac Island—besides the world famous fudge and the grand, Victorian, painted-lady summer cottages—was the fact that motorized vehicles, with the exception of the ambulance and fire truck, were not allowed on the island. That meant there were only three modes of transportation: horse-drawn carriage, bicycle, and on foot.

  Since the fireworks were stored in a cinder block warehouse near the airport, I decided to bike it and unchained my bicycle from the stand in the back alley. Two miles on foot might make my current tardiness even worse. I threw my blue Ked-covered right foot over the bike and took off, thankful for the black slacks that were part of my standard uniform.

  It really was a lovely day. I was continually amazed at the laid-back beauty of the island and the large state park in the center that offered good hiking, beautiful views, and fresh air to anyone who’d had enough of the hustle and bustle of the fort and shops of Main Street. I watched the Grand Hotel’s Cessna 421C charter plane land as I drew close to the airport.

  The airport warehouse had been built to store supplies flown in during the winter months when the ferries quit running. We picked it for the fireworks storage because it was cinder block and away from the crowds.

  A handful of tourists stepped out of the charter plane and onto the tarmac. The Grand Hotel was a magnet for the wealthy and offered the charter plane service as a quick and easy way onto the island from Chicago or Detroit.

  Three men were perfectly groomed and wore aviator sunglasses, stylish jeans, and immaculately pressed linen shirts. Two women wore what appeared to be designer-cut halter dresses with floral patterns. Their long bare legs were made even longer by the gold toned sandals.

  The last to step out of the plane was Sophie Collins, the local pilot. She wore a crisp white shirt with epaulets and tan slacks. Her dark curly hair was pulled back in a low, easy ponytail. I waved at her. She waved back then turned to escort her clients to the waiting horse-drawn carriage that would take them to the Grand Hotel.

  I’d met Sophie at a dinner party Trent Jessop’s sister had given for about twenty of the local island folks. Unlike the others, Sophie had been the only one to treat me like an equal. We had a long discussion about the cliquishness of island society. She was in her early thirties, had been a full-time pilot for the Grand Hotel for three years, and still occasionally ran up against people who treated her like an outsider.

  I parked my bike in front of the warehouse and took note that two other bikes were nearby. One had the look of a rental bike. Many places on the island rent bikes. Most of the better hotels had bike rental right outside their doors. The second bike was a professional off-roader. It had the used look of a local’s.

  “Hello?” I said as I opened the door. “Mr. Rivers? It’s Allie McMurphy. I came as soon as I got your messages.”

  The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed and hissed above me.

  “Hello?” The first aisle was quiet and while the shelves were filled with boxes large and small there wasn’t a human to be found. “Mr. Rivers? It’s Allie. You left me a message about a problem?”

  The second aisle of shelves was empty. I paused to see if I could hear anyone talking. Two bikes outside besides mine meant someone had to be in the warehouse, didn’t they?

  Two offices in the back near the bay doors were big enough to bring in full pallets of supplies—in this case—fireworks. Maybe Rodney Rivers was in one of the offices with whomever else was there. It could be that they had closed the door and couldn’t hear me.

  A quick glance down the third and last isle didn’t reveal anything tragic as his voice mail had stated. Perhaps he’d cleared everything up already. After all, it had been over an hour since the last phone call.

  My phone rang and, startled, I jumped what felt like ten feet. Clearly, I was on edge in the warehouse. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and saw that the number belonged to Rex Manning, sexy police officer and now my good friend. “Hello?”

  “Allie, are you okay? Frances said there may be trouble at the fireworks warehouse.”

  “I’m good, except my heart is still racing from being startled by my phone ringing.” I walked toward the two offices built with half walls of cinder block and the rest window so that the manager of the warehouse could look out and keep an eye on the workers.

  Rex chuckled. “Spooky at the warehouse? Where’s Phil Angler? He’s usually around there somewhere.”

  “I have no idea. When I got here two bikes were parked outside. One looked like a rental so I assume it belongs to Rodney Rivers. Maybe the second belongs to Phil.”

  “Was it a blue off-roader?”

  “I think so.” I continued toward the darkened offices. “I wasn’t paying that much attention. I was in a bit of a hurry.”

  “Hurry for what?”

  “I got two voice messages from Mr. Rivers. He’s the pyro technician I hired for the fireworks shows. The first m
essage he left said we had a problem at the warehouse and I was to call him back. The second got interrupted, but I think he said something about sabotage.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that, Allie. Get out of the warehouse.” Rex’s tone of voice brooked no argument. Not that his tone had any effect on me.

  “I’m fine. As far as I can tell no one’s here.” I put my free hand on the glass to shade my eyes and break the glare from the overhead lights and peered into the first dark office. “The phone calls were an hour or so ago. Maybe he resolved things already.”

  “Allie, I’m serious. Get the hell out of the warehouse. Do it now.”

  “But—“

  “I swear, Allie, sometimes you are too stubborn for your own good. Get out. The place might be rigged and—“

  “Could explode,” I finished and pursed my mouth, pushing it to the side as I peered down the aisle. The last office was just a few feet away with only the distance of the bay door between me and it. “I watch TV, too. How often does that happen in real life?”

  “Allie—”

  “Okay, fine. I’m at the bay door in the back, anyway. I’ll just stick my head over and take a peek in the second office and I’ll leave.”

  “I’m nearly there,” Rex said. “I need you to leave now.”

  “But it’s only a few feet and I’ll be careful.” I checked for trip wires or anything like what you see in movies that might cause an explosion as I carefully tiptoed across the bay door. “If anyone sees me doing this, they’re going to think I’m crazy.”