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

haven’t heard that term used in a while. But I do live here.”
    “That’s what they all say, trying to get out of using their number.” Her fingers continued on with a cable pattern on beautiful blue wool with a hint of white mixed into the weave.
    “Seriously, I spent my summers on island,” I protested. “My last name is McMurphy. I own the historic McMurphy Hotel and Fudge Shoppe.”
    “You say that like a fudgie.” She seemed unimpressed with my credentials.
    “But I’m not.” She was right. I sounded like a pouting five-year-old. “I’m the current owner of the McMurphy. My grandfather left it to me. See, this is the paper with my power account on it.”
    I waved the paper in front of her and waited a moment for her to apologize and welcome me home. She simply shrugged. “Fudgie.”
    Frustrated, I had to ask. “Okay, if this paper isn’t enough, how do I prove I don’t need a number?”
    Her gaze never left her work. “Name the two men in line who are not tourists.”
    My eyes grew wide. I rubbed the edge of my nose and studied the five people who actually stood in what appeared to be a line. Three had numbers in their hands. I deduced that meant the bulky bald man wearing a plaid flannel shirt and jeans was a local and the middle-aged man with brown hair that grayed at the sides, who wore a blue polo shirt, Dockers, and boat shoes, was most likely the other local.
    I pursed my lips.
    “Don’t know, do you?” The corners of her mouth went up slightly.
    “I certainly do,” I blustered through and prayed my brain would come up with a name. Luckily the bulky bald guy turned enough I could see his face. “That’s Pete Thompson . . . and the thin guy is . . .”
    “A tourist,” she stated.
    “Next,” came the call as the old woman shuffled to the side.
    The Chippewa woman stood and grabbed her tote.
    “Wait!” I held out my hand as if that could stop her. Strangely, she stopped and looked at me, her brown eyes laughing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name. I’m Allie McMurphy.”
    “Susan Goodfoot.”
    “Next.”
    Susan headed for the desk. I sat back deflated. I suppose she was right on some respects. I was a tourist. It was pretty clear I didn’t know who she was and clearly she lived on island. In fact, the only people I knew on island were friends of Papa Liam or Grammy Alice. I was more likely to know everyone at the senior center than the townies standing in line.
    I frowned. Why did so many of them wear a purple ribbon? Did they all see me as a stranger? A murderer? Or merely Papa Liam’s silly granddaughter?
    “Well, well, well.” Pete Thompson stood in front of me with his hands in his pockets. “If it isn’t the little McMurphy girl all grown up.” He held out his hand. “Pete Thompson, I own the Oakton B and B behind the McMurphy.”
    “I know who you are.” I remember the summer I was twelve. Pete followed me everywhere, taunting me, pulling my hair, and generally being a bully.
    He barked out a laugh and pulled his hand back. “Spunky, like I remember. Well, little girl, I heard you killed Joe Jessop.” He tapped the purple ribbon on his chest.
    I scowled. I was not a little girl. I was thirty years old. “I am going to say this for the last time—” My voice rose loud enough to echo through the lobby. “I didn’t kill anyone. I found a dead man in my closet and called the police. End of story.”
    “Really?” His obnoxious grin widened. “I saw the painters out front today. I figure you’re sprucing up the old family place to sell. Maybe cut your losses and run. Am I right? Because I can make you a decent offer.”
    I raised my chin. “I’m not selling. The place has been in our family for a hundred and twenty years.”
    He rubbed his right earlobe. “Not selling, huh? Don’t tell me you’re going to try to make a go of it. . . .”
    I stood. “What if I am?”
    His laughter rang through the room, drawing the attention of townie and tourist