All You Need Is Fudge (10 page)

“You shouldn't have done that,” Mrs. O'Malley said. “She had the sugars, you know. She'll go into a coma and never come out.”

“That was for her table,” I said.

“She doesn't have a table,” Mrs. Tunisian informed me.

I glanced around to see that Mrs. Finch had indeed taken the plate of fudge to the corner and was currently stuffing it in her purse. I frowned.

“It does seem reckless,” Mrs. O'Malley said.

“Giving her that much fudge?” I asked.

“No, leaving the murder weapon out in plain view.” Mrs. O'Malley picked up her paintbrush and dipped it in a small bowl of blue paint. “Anyone with any sense would have gotten rid of the thing. I would have tossed it right along with the body.”

“I would have broken it up and burned it,” Mrs. Albert said. “You can't find blood in ashes.”

“It does seem suspicious,” Mrs. Helmsworth said. “But if there's any funny business, you'll figure that out, won't you, dear?” She patted my rear.

I blinked. “What?”

“I bet you already knew about the oar, didn't you?” Mrs. Tunisian said. “You are a bright girl with connections to the Jessops. You most likely already have the real killer fingered. Isn't that right, dear?”

“Um . . .”

“You can't ask her that,” Mrs. Helmsworth said. “You'll ruin the investigation.”

Mrs. Tunisian pouted. “I don't see how my knowing who she thinks did it will ruin the investigation. Unlike some people I know, I don't tell people things.”

“Well, I never!”

“You most certainly do,” Mrs. O'Malley said with a grin. “I'm your mother. I would know. Now, Allie, dear, everyone here knows you didn't just decide to bring us fudge for no reason. Please tell us what is on your mind.”

“Well”—I pulled up a chair and sat down—“I really wanted to know more about Frances.”

“Seriously?” Mrs. Albert asked, her expression one of disappointment. “She works with you. What do you need us for?”

“Well, you see”—I looked at their expressions, wondered how much I could really trust them not to say anything, and dialed back my line of questioning—“I want to do something special for her birthday and I wondered, you know, who her best friends are. What types of hobbies she has. What things does she find silly or romantic . . . or funny or well, weird . . . you know.”

“You don't want to hire a clown if she's afraid of clowns,” Mrs. Helmsworth deduced.

“Exactly,” I said and sat back. “What can you tell me about her?”

“Wouldn't you rather speculate about the murder?” Mrs. O'Malley asked hopefully. “I mean we have the means, but what was the motive and what do the police know that they were able to build a case around Paige Jessop of all people?”

“I heard they have an eyewitness,” Mrs. Tunisian said.

“No way,” Mrs. Albert said.

“Oh, yes, way,” Mrs. Tunisian replied. “My daughter Katy said that Paige's boyfriend Ronald saw the whole thing.”

“Ronald? Who's Ronald?” I asked.

“His name is Reggie,” Mrs. Albert said.

“No, I'm certain she said it was Ronald who saw the whole thing,” Mrs. Tunisian said. “It was quite the catfight. leading Paige to grab the oar and smack Carin at the back of the skull. She hit her so hard the girl went flying into the water. Paige dropped the oar and ran away in tears.”

“None of that makes sense,” Mrs. Albert said. “Who runs away and leaves a murder weapon on the deck? Paige Jessop is a smart girl. She would have called the Coast Guard or done something to save Carin.”

“Why is there an oar on a yacht?” I had to ask. “Don't they have motors or sails or something?”

“Oh, dear girl,” Mrs. Helmsworth said and patted my hand. “You might know fudge, but you don't know anything about sailing, do you?”

“Well . . .”

“Of course she doesn't. She's from Chicago.” Mrs. Albert turned to me as if I were a small child. “The yachts all have lifeboats for emergencies. The oar belonged to a lifeboat, dear.”

“So the yachts all have oars hanging around on the decks at easy reach?” I asked. It seemed a simple question.

The ladies all reacted with a gasp.

“What?”

“You're right,” Mrs. Tunisian said. “The oars aren't stored on the deck. They are usually tucked away either in or near the lifeboats. Which means—”

“It was premeditated,” Mrs. O'Malley said and pursed her lips. “I can't buy that. Someone would have seen Paige take an oar out. They would have noticed it sitting on the deck. Wouldn't they wonder why?”

“None of it makes sense, now that you mention it,” Mrs. Albert said. “Who is this Ronald person? Can we trust him as a witness?”

“Well, it seems the police trust him,” Mrs. Tunisian said. “They arrested Paige, didn't they?”

“I don't like it,” Mrs. O'Malley said. “What are your theories, Allie?”

They all turned and looked at me.

“What can you tell me about Frances?” I asked lamely.

“Stop trying to change the subject,” Mrs. Albert said. “We know you are investigating this murder.”

“She probably can't tell us anything yet. Can you, dear.” Mrs. O'Malley winked at me. “How about we guess and you blink once for yes and twice for no?”

“What? No, I'm sorry I can't. I really need to get some private information on Frances.” I put my head in my hands.

“Why?” Mrs. Albert asked.

“Do you think she needs a background check?” Mrs. O'Malley said. “I hear all employers do a background check on their employees on a regular basis these days.”

“My background hasn't been checked in years,” Mrs. Tunisian said with a throaty chuckle.

“Oh please. Your husband hasn't been dead that long,” Mrs. Albert said.

“I know,” Mrs. Tunisian said, her eyes flashing. All the old ladies laughed.

I tried not to join in because I didn't know how appropriate it was. I felt the lightest tug on my shirt sleeve and uncovered my eyes to see Mrs. Finch standing beside me. Even though I was sitting and she was standing, she was so tiny we still looked at each other eye to eye.

“If you want to know about Frances, you should ask Margaret Vanderbilt. They've been best friends for decades.”

“They have?” I asked.

Mrs. Finch nodded. Her big gray eyes looked very sincere.

“Who's Margaret Vanderbilt?” I asked the group.

“She's running this craft class.” Mrs. O'Malley pointed to a woman wearing a colorful smock.

I could have kissed Mrs. Finch. Instead, I snuck her an extra piece of fudge with a wink. “Thanks.” I got up.

“Wait!” Mrs. O'Malley said. “You are coming back with an update on the case, right?”

“Um, sure. I'll be by with more fudge next craft day.” I touched Mrs. Helmsworth's shoulder. “I'll be sure to bring some plain. No teeth damage will be done on my watch.”

“Make it super dark chocolate,” she said and went back to her teacup and paints. “The more percent cacao, the better.”

“Got it.” I picked up my nearly empty platter, keeping my gaze on the teacher in the front of the class while I handed out the few pieces of remaining fudge.

Margaret Vanderbilt was five-foot-five with long, curly, gray hair that was pulled back into a low ponytail. She wore delicate but well-done makeup that accented her dewy skin and wide blue eyes. She wore cat-eyed glasses with purple sparkly frames, the colorful smock, and long flowing slacks that ended in sturdy black shoes. She had silver and gold rings on each finger and large hoop earrings made of gold and silver intertwined. As she helped people, she talked as much with her hands as her mouth, delicately using tiny paint brushes to accent a piece here and there or to show the painter how to do something.

“Hi,” I said when she paused for a moment and saw me with my nearly empty platter. “Would you like some fudge?”

“You're the McMurphy girl, aren't you?” Her smile widened with pleasure.

“Yes,” I said with a short nod. I juggled the tray to hold out my hand. “I'm Allie and I've been told your name is Margaret.”

“Yes, but you can call me Maggs. Why we're practically family. I've been hearing about you since you were knee high to a grasshopper.”

“Do you have time to get a coffee?” I asked.

She glanced at the big clock on the wall. “It is about lunchtime and I think their attention spans are done. Give me ten minutes to wrap things up here, okay?”

“Sounds great,” I said.

She clapped her hands and gave them instructions on how to store their teacups to dry until the next craft class. By the time they had put the supplies away, the two assistants and five volunteers were washing the tables and setting up the lunch.

“Well,” Maggs said. “Allie McMurphy in the flesh.”

“I'm so sorry we haven't met sooner.”

“Oh, we've met, dear,” she said and took off her smock, revealing a V-necked T-shirt underneath. Margaret was slender and firm for a woman in her seventies. Between her and Frances aging so well, I had great role models for growing old.

“We did?”

Maggs smiled. “Yes. Once when you were six. Then again that summer you were eight and had the pigtails. Then when you were thirteen and had braces.”

I frowned. “Why don't I remember you? I should remember you.”

“Most likely because you were usually with your Grammy Alice running errands,” she said with a casual wave of her hand. “I used to have red hair but about five years ago, I decided to stop coloring it and now it's all gray.”

I did have a vague memory of one of Grammy Alice's friends with gorgeous red curls and chandelier earrings. “Oh, you were the one who had the diamond and pearl earrings that shimmered in the sunlight.”

“Yes,” she said, her gaze lighting up. “You do remember.”

“I remember how pretty you were, like Ariel from
The Little Mermaid
.”

“Oh, how sweet.”

“Well, please let me take you out to lunch.” I held the door for her. “To make up for not remembering you sooner and then stealing you away from the obvious feast they are serving here today.”

“It's ham and cheese day. I think I'll survive not eating their lunch.”

“Perfect. Shall we go to the Portage Café? I hear they have some great salads and pasta.”

“Sounds good.”

The café was three blocks from the senior center and off Main Street. With it being yacht race weekend, the place was hopping.

“Hi Allie, Hi Maggs,” Patty Dens said. “Table for two?”

“Yes, please,” I said. “Do you have anything out in the garden seating?”

“Actually I do,” she said and picked up two menus. “Follow me.”

We did and were soon seated at a glass table with a shady umbrella in the back corner of the lot. I didn't mind as we were out of the way and could hear each other talk. I ordered salad and Maggs ordered a pasta bowl with meatballs.

“Well, this is nice,” she said.

“I agree.”

“Were you at the senior center looking for clues to Carin Moore's murder?”

“What? No.” I shook my head. “Why does everyone think that?”

She shrugged. “Maybe because we all know that the senior center is the best place to get the scoop an anything that is going on on the island.”

“Huh,” I said. “That's good to know. So when Frances tells me things—”

“She usually hears it at the center. I'm surprised she hasn't taken you there before. In fact, I'm surprised she wasn't with you today.”

“She wasn't with me because I didn't want her with me.”

“Why not?” Maggs drew her eyebrows together in a worried frown.

“Because I've been tasked by Douglas Devaney to help plan a romantic, private, proposal for Frances that is memorable and as remarkable as she is.”

“Well, I'll be,” Maggs said and sat back. “He's going to propose marriage?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“As soon as Jenn and I come up with something nice and memorable that shows he has taken care and wants to make her happy.”

“Wow.” Maggs grinned. “That is the happiest thing I've heard in a long time.”

“Yes, well, Jenn and I were discussing some ideas when I realized that I have no idea what Frances thinks is romantic or memorable or anything like that. We realized we don't even know Frances's friends outside of the McMurphy.”

“So you decided to come to the senior center and find out.”

“Yes,” I said with a nod. “But when I got there, all anyone wanted to do was talk about Carin Moore and the investigation—which I don't know anything about, by the way. Finally, Mrs. Finch mentioned that you were Frances's best friend.”

“And here we are,” Maggs finished my story.

“Yes.” I sent her a pathetic look. “Here we are. Me buying you lunch because I never asked Frances about her life. I've been quite selfish, thinking I know all about her when I actually don't. I know about her from my summers here and from what Grammy Alice used to say. I know what she does for me at the McMurphy and I'm pretty sure she is in love with Mr. Devaney.”

“Douglas,” Maggs said. “Yes, she is quite over the moon about him. They are like two teenagers together. It's adorable.”

“See.” I waved my hand at her. “They've been sneaking around us at the hotel and making us guess they were dating.”