Free To Fudge or Not to Fudge (A Candy-Coated Mystery with Recipes) by Nancy CoCo

day, now.” I opened the door for her, and she stepped out, gathering her sweater around her shoulders as a fresh breeze blew in off the lake. Seeing that she was properly distracted, I slipped back into the shop and closed the door behind me. “Free at last,” I said to Frances, who sent me a wry smile.
    “You’re going to be late for your photo shoot.” She pointed at the clock on the desk showing that it was five minutes past the time I’d been slated to show up.
    “Darn it.” I pulled off my dirty chef coat and hat and grabbed a fresh chef coat out of the linen closet tucked into the back of the elevators. “Do we have hairnets?” I asked Frances as I grabbed the rest of the required objects and walked to the door.
    “I’ll get right on those,” Frances called after me.
    I went out the back door with a full head of steam. Why didn’t Papa Liam ever use a hairnet?
    “Because your Papa Liam had been bald since he was twenty-two years old,” came the reply.
    Startled, I glanced up and saw Mr. Beecher making his way toward me down the alleyway between the McMurphy and the Oakton B and B behind it. The old man always reminded me of the snowman from that classic Christmas cartoon. He had a white mustache, laughing dark eyes, and a wide, bald head. He preferred to wear fedoras no matter what the weather. In the heat they were straw; in the cooler weather they were felt. He usually wore a dress shirt, a waistcoat, and a jacket over black slacks with shiny dark shoes. He was as old as Papa or maybe older. I wasn’t sure and thought it rude to ask.
    “Hello, Mr. Beecher,” I said. “You startled me. I didn’t realize I had asked that question out loud.”
    “Where are you going in such a distracted hurry?” he asked as I reached him.
    “I was asked to be part of the reality fudge-off being filmed at the Grand. I was supposed to have been there five minutes ago, but got shanghaied by one of my clients who was concerned that none of us were wearing hairnets.”
    Mr. Beecher nodded. “No need for them really. You young people wash your hair much more often than we did back in our day. As long as the hair is clean and pulled back, you’re good.”
    “That’s what I told her, but she kept complaining. Some people like the attention they get when you are trying to sell them something. You are a captive audience and they are reluctant to let you go.” I raised my eyebrows. “On that note I’ve got to get going. See you later, Mr. Beecher,” I called over my shoulder.
    “Knock ’em dead, my dear.” His words floated back after me.
    “I’ll certainly try,” I called over my shoulder. “That is, if they don’t fire me for being tardy.”

CHAPTER 9
    “Good, you’re here,” called a young man in cigarette-shaped black pants and a white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was as thin as a rail, with brown hair that was cut very short in back, but the bangs were left long so that they could be side swept and reached his cheekbones. “I’m Austin and I’m the stylist for the show.” He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into a partitioned portion of one of the ballrooms at the Grand. Inside were racks of clothing and shoes, shelves with accessories, and ten chef ’s hats—one with each person’s name on it. They read from left to right, Bruce, Cathy, Tony, Jabar, Emily, Amber, Erin, Mark, Tim and on the very end was a hat with my name on it—Allie.
    There was loud pop music playing and a makeup artist worked on one middle-aged woman’s makeup while a hairstylist tsked over a young man’s faux hawk.
    “What are you?” the stylist looked me up and down. “A size eight?”
    “Usually a size six,” I answered, feeling that his question was rude considering we just met. “Sometimes an eight. It really depends on the cut.” I tilted my head. “I’m Allie McMurphy, by the way.”
    “Yes, yes, I know who you are—I have your picture and your personal file. They’ve got you cast as the