All I Want For Christmas is Fudge (A Candy-Coated Mystery with Recipes Book 4)

 

“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.”

 

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

 

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

 

 

“
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.”

 

“
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.”

 

“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

 

 

Nancy Coco

Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

Who doesn’t love fudge, friends, and Christmas? Seriously, I was missing all three, so I returned to Mackinac Island the week before Christmas to spend time with my best friend and sometimes boss, Allie McMurphy. Allie inherited her family’s small business, the Historic McMurphy Hotel and Fudge Shop. She’d taken over when her grandfather Papa Liam had died in early May and I’d come out to help her last summer.

My name is Jennifer Christensen. I’m an event planner by trade and thought I’d be spending most of my life in my hometown of Chicago, Illinois, until Allie needed my help. I’d only been to Mackinac Island once before last season. It’s a beautiful place to spend a couple of months—or so I thought. Then I got a little involved in the people and events that went on there and fell in love with . . . well, everything. Mackinac Island is a gorgeous place for weddings and reunions and parties, and the McMurphy is a nice place to set such events. I suspected Allie needed me full-time, but she had yet to ask.

When the summer season ended, I left Mackinac behind—along with my boyfriend the CSI guy, Shane Carpenter. It was a tear-filled good-bye. I left for a paying gig in Chicago with Eve’s Events. What I’ve learned is that Eve is no Allie, and Chicago was no longer the home of my heart. So, when Allie invited me to come to Mackinac Island in December for the Santa Fun Run and for Christmas, I said yes. Besides, it was an excuse to see what life is like in the off-season.

There really wasn’t an off-season on Mackinac Island. Winter had its own events and beauty. Yes, the number of visitors was far fewer and snowmobiles took over for bicycles, but it was the perfect winter wonderland. There were still a few horses that pulled sleighs. Some brave adventurers rode fat-tire bikes, but it was tough going in the deep snow.

Most of the Victorian summer homes that now served as bed and breakfasts were closed. A few places like the McMurphy were open year-round, making the tiny island homey, quiet, and a little crazy. With as much snow as Mackinac Island got in winter, there wasn’t much to do but pub crawls and winter sports. Once the straits started to ice up, the ferries didn’t run. So I hopped a ride via chartered airplane. Luckily, I knew a pilot. Sophie had brought a group of us in from Chicago’s executive airport.

Last night was crazy. The streets had been wall-to-wall Santas. The Santa Fun Run was a 10K race around the island with participants wearing Santa suits. To make the winter celebration even more fun, there were Santa pub crawls set for the two nights before the race and the night after, adding up to a four-day affair.

I stood in the middle of Main Street and took a long, deep breath. There was something so clean and rustic about Main Street in the winter. It was early morning—six
AM
. I wore thermal running gear and a Santa hat, along with a long red-and-white-striped scarf. A foot of snow covered the ground and Main Street was lined with snowmobiles.

In anticipation for the race, the Chamber of Commerce had plowed the eight-mile bike path that circled the island. The route would include Main Street, Lake Shore Drive, and Huron Drive.

I headed out on Main Street and then veered off to Lake Shore Drive along the island’s coast. It was dark, as the sun wasn’t supposed to be up for at least an hour. The lake was frozen pretty far out. Soon the brave would try to cross via an ice bridge. In some years the ice froze thick enough a person could ride across the straits from Mackinac Island to St. Ignace on a snowmobile. Traditionally, the islanders would line the ice bridge with Christmas trees.

It was cold this year and the ice was already four inches thick. The air was frigid. I’d taken the precaution of putting Vaseline on my face to ward off windburn. My breath puffed out in a cloud. I had my hair pulled back into a thick, dark braid. I ate up the distance as I stretched my long legs out into an easy stride.

Running was a study in meditation for me. I tended to count my breaths—in two, three, four; out two, three, four. When I had first started running in high school, counting my breathing had distracted me from the pain in my side and kept me from gasping for breath. I’d been running five or more miles a day for over ten years now. There was something so wonderful about outrunning your troubles. That’s what it felt like to me when I ran.

Being from Chicago, I liked winter running. It was hard on the knees and ankles due to the uneven snow, but this trail was well groomed in anticipation of the Santa Run.

I came up on a pair of Santas in full suits puffing away. “On your left,” I said, and sent them a salute as I lengthened my stride to pass.

“Ho, ho, ho,” the larger of the two Santas said as I left them behind. I put on a burst of speed because I liked to run alone. I liked the quiet, and passing them would let them know I wasn’t in the mood to chat.

I was well past the three-mile marker when I rounded the corner and saw a Santa resting in a snowbank near the woods side of the trail. The sky had started to lighten and I could make out a red suit and a Santa hat ahead of me. As I approached, I noticed that this Santa appeared to be face-planted in the snowbank. It was comical how his legs, covered in red Santa pants with white, faux-fur trim, stuck up in the air. One black boot was on. The other was off, revealing red-and-white-striped socks in thick wool.

The breeze teased the trim at the bottom of the slacks. The white ball at the end of his Santa cap fluttered. I slowed down. It was too cold to be sleeping in a snowbank, even if you were wearing a Santa suit.

“Hey, Santa, wake up,” I said as I jogged in place. He didn’t move. A spike of fear went through me as I noticed how pale the skin was at the back of his neck. I stopped, grabbed his shoulder, and tried to roll him over. He was stiff and strangely crunchy. It took both hands to try to budge him; his arms and legs stayed in the weird position he was originally in.

Something was not right, but your brain does weird things when faced with a new situation. I could only think that I had to get his face out of the snow. I put my back into the effort to roll him over until I got a glimpse of his white face. His eyes were wide open and unseeing. His neck was at a funny angle. I couldn’t help the small scream that came out of me as I let him go.

Momentum caused him to fall back into the posture I found him in. I fumbled for my cell phone. As a longtime runner, I had perfected the use of the armband cell phone holder. I had an app that allowed me to keep track of my distance and time and heart rate. Besides, a girl alone should always have a cell phone on her. Thankfully, I was able to pull it off the band and dial 9-1-1.

“Nine-one-one, this is Charlene. What is your emergency?” came the voice of the dispatcher.

“Hi, yes, my name is Jenn Christensen. I was jogging on the Fun Run trail and I think we’ve got a frozen Santa on our hands.”

“Are you in hypothermia? I can send blankets and hot cocoa,” Charlene said. “But you really should be more prepared when you run. Where are you exactly? Can you get back to Main Street on your own?”

“Oh,” I said, and looked from Santa to the coastline. “No, it’s not me. There’s a Santa facedown in the snowbank. I tried to turn him over, but he’s quite stiff. I think he might be dead.”

“Oh, dear,” Charlene said. “Is this Allie McMurphy?”

“No, this is Jenn Christensen, Allie’s friend.”

“And you think there’s a dead body on the Santa Fun Run trail?”

“Yes,” I said, frowning at Charlene’s repetitive questions. “I’m quite certain. I tried rolling him over, but he’s kind of tall. Even though he’s thinner than most Santas, he’s frozen and I couldn’t get his face out of the snow. Oh, and his eyes are open.”

“Well, then, where exactly are you?” I could hear her connecting to the police.

“I’m at Griffin Cove, between the three- and four-mile marks,” I said.

“Okay, I’ve sent out first responders. They should arrive on snowmobiles. Are you with anyone?”

“Besides the dead Santa?” I asked. “No, I’m alone. I like to run by myself. There were a couple of guys on the trail behind me. Listen, can you tell the police to hurry? It’s kind of creepy out here alone with a dead guy.” Although the sky lightened a bit, the nearby woods felt ominous.

“It’s all right,” Charlene said in what I suspected was an attempt to comfort me. “I’ll stay on the line with you. They are on their way. Can you tell me if Santa is breathing?”

I rolled my eyes. “If he is breathing, he’s inhaling snow. Like I said, he’s skinny, but tall and heavy. I can try to roll him over again.”

“No,” Charlene said. “Don’t move him. If he has a neck injury, you could make it worse.”

“I really don’t think things could get worse,” I said as I studied the frozen Santa.

“Can you check if he has a pulse?”

“We are well beyond a pulse here,” I said. “He’s frozen like a Christmas turkey.”

“It’s protocol,” Charlene said. “Please see if you can get a pulse.”

I bit my bottom lip and bent down to look at the Santa. One skinny wrist stuck out between the sleeve and the red coat. The skin was pale and bloodless. “He’s wearing white Santa gloves, but there is a bit of wrist sticking out of his sleeve,” I said. “He’s also white. Are you sure I should touch him?”

“Yes,” Charlene instructed. “He might be cold, but still alive.”

I did as she asked. The frozen flesh of Santa’s wrist was icy and hard. “Okay,” I said as I dropped his arm and stood, taking a step away. “That was weird. There’s no pulse. I suspect Santa’s been dead awhile.”

In the distance I could hear snowmobiles approaching. I turned toward the trail and, instead of snow machines, saw the two jogging Santas puffing their way toward me. “The two runners I passed are here,” I said, and waved my hands over my head to get their attention.

“Don’t let them touch anything,” Charlene warned me. “If it’s a crime scene, you shouldn’t disturb it.”

“Right,” I muttered.

“Ho, ho, ho,” the heavier Santa said. “Did that sprint wear you out, young lady? Remember the story of the tortoise and the hare? Best not to be too speedy that you get worn-out.”

“Yes, I know the story.” I put my hands out in front of me. “You need to stop right there,” I said. “There’s a Santa down and this may be a crime scene. We don’t want to contaminate it.” As I said, my boyfriend, Shane, was a crime scene investigator. That, combined with Allie’s penchant to find dead bodies, gave me enough knowledge to be dangerous. The last thing first responders would want was a scene compromised by a bunch of joggers and lookie-loos.

“What’s going on?” the older Santa asked as they stopped in front of me. He was short, fit, and tan, with a shock of white hair and blue eyes.

“There’s a Santa down,” I repeated, and glanced over my shoulder at the body in the snowbank. “I’ve got nine-one-one on the line. She’s sent first responders. I think they are on the snowmobiles you can hear in the distance.”

“I’m a doctor,” the tan Santa said. “I can help.”

I put my hands down. “Okay, you can try, but I think the guy is beyond medical assistance.” I let him through while the larger, heavier, more gregarious Santa huffed and puffed in place. “Charlene,” I said into the phone. “This guy says he’s a doctor. I let him look at the down Santa.”

“This man is dead,” Doctor Santa said. “Joe, come help me roll him over.”

“He has confirmed the man is dead,” I said to Charlene. “He wants to roll the body over.”

“Tell him to wait for the first responders.”

“Okay.” I put my hand on Joe’s chest. “Wait. Don’t touch anything.” Joe paused and I turned to the doctor. “Nine-one-one dispatch says to leave everything for the first responders.”

With growling engines the two snowmobiles pulled up. Officer Rex Manning stepped off one. George Marron, a local EMT, rode the second machine with a stretcher in tow.

“What’s going on?” Rex asked. He took off his helmet and rested it on the seat of his ride. Rex was a tall, bald guy, handsome in an action hero sort of way.

“There’s a Santa in the snowbank,” I said, and chewed the inside of my mouth. “The doc there says he’s dead.”

“Stay here,” Rex said, and went over to the body. George followed with his EMT kit in hand.

“Rex is here,” I said into my phone. “Can I hang up?”

“Yes,” Charlene said.

I hung up my phone and put it back in my armband holder. Heavy Santa was still puffing beside me. I turned to him. “Are you okay?”

“Sure,” he said, and bent to put his hands on his thighs. “One too many drinks at the pub last night.”

I lifted my right eyebrow. “That’s probably what happened to him.” I motioned toward the dead guy. I watched as Rex, the doc, and George rolled him over. His hands and legs stayed in their bent and awkward positions.

“Anyone recognize him?” I asked, and stepped closer.

“No,” George said. “But he’s wearing a disguise.” He reached over and pulled off the fake white beard and Santa hat.

“I still don’t know him,” I said. “But he’s good-looking for a stiff.” My attempt at a joke fell flat. The dead guy’s eyes were open and devoid of life. Still, he was attractive. His oval face, light-brown brows, and long slender nose reminded me of the actor who played the Scarecrow in
The Wizard of Oz.

“Has to be a tourist,” Rex said.

“Looks like he was bashed pretty good,” George said, and gently turned the head to expose the nasty blood-splattered indentation on the dead guy’s temple.

“Do you think it’s the cause of death?” I asked.

“Hard to say from here,” George said. “We need to take the body to the ME to figure that out.”

“Who found him?” Rex asked.

“I did.”

“She did.” The two Santas turned to me with curiosity on their faces.

“I’m also the one who called nine-one-one. These two jogged up while I was on the phone. Are you going to call Shane in to investigate the crime scene?” I asked, my heart full of hope.