All Fudged Up (A Candy-Coated Mystery) by Nancy CoCo Read Free Book Online

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.

Chapter 6
    “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