Read Online All Fudged Up (A Candy-Coated Mystery) by Nancy CoCo - Free Book Online
Authors: Nancy CoCo
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ball of fur inside my jacket. “Welcome to your new home, baby.” I stepped inside and closed the door, waving Frances on.
Frances waved back and continued down Main. I locked the doors behind me and put the puppy down on the dropcloth–covered floor.
“I think you’re going to love the McMurphy. I know I do.” I tried not to feel silly talking to a fluffy dog the size of my fist. “Come on. Let’s make sure we’re alone.”
While I checked all the closets and behind the counters of the first floor, the puppy piddled . . . twice. “Really?” I muttered and grabbed her up. I don’t know why I thought if I held her she would stop piddling.
Needless to say I shot out to the back door and across the alley to a small patch of grass. I kept the puppy at arm’s length until I set her in the grass. My jeans were wet and clung to my leg. As for the pup, she sniffed the grass, suddenly concerned about where she peed. I shivered while she turned figure eights until she found just the right spot and squatted.
The sides of the McMurphy were attached to the Bristol T-shirt shop on one side and the Old Tyme Photography shop on the other. Neither place was occupied at the moment. The McMurphy was wide. The back of each level had a prerequisite door. The second and third floors opened up to a black wrought-iron fire escape that had been put in sometime during the turn of the twentieth century.
There was a light outside of each door that turned on when the sun set. I noticed that the escape ladder was pulled down, meaning anyone could climb up to the second or third level.
“I wonder how long that’s been like that,” I said to myself.
“Are you talking to the dog?”
I gasped and turned to find Mr. Beecher, one of Papa’s card buddies, walking down the alley. He wore a brown coat that hung open to reveal a tweed sweater, a brown vest, and a white-and-brown button-down with the collar open. His corduroy pants and brown shoes lent him an air of old-world elegance. Maybe it was the cane he used or the fedora that sat on his head as if he stepped out of a 1940s movie. “Mr. Beecher, you startled me.”
His brown eyes were watery and gentle. “Your pup is wandering off.” He pointed with his cane. I followed it to see the puppy, nose to the ground, following the alleyway as if she could find her way back home.
“Thanks.” I scooped her up and she licked my chin. “What are you doing back here?”
“Shortcut to my place,” he stated as he strolled over and stopped to look at the McMurphy. “Heard about old Joe. Darned shame.” He eyed me. “It had to be difficult finding him so soon after your grandpa’s death.”
“It was,” I admitted and hugged the puppy.
“I heard that the town is taking sides over it.” He shook his head. “Darned fools. A man is dead and they’re making a game out of it.”
“Thank you.” It was good to finally find someone with reason. Then I noticed the purple ribbon on his coat. “Wait, you’re siding with the Jessops?”
He shrugged. “Liam beat me at the last ten card games, the old cheat.”
“Oh for Pete’s sake . . .”
“Now don’t get yourself all worked up,” he said. “My black coat has a green ribbon. Old Joe was a mean bastard. Like I said, foolish to take sides.”
I tried not to frown. “Just out of curiosity, how often do you walk back here?”
“Oh, once or twice a day depending on how my knees feel. I usually cut through when they’re unhappy. Why?”
“Do you have any idea how long the fire-escape ladder’s been down?” I pointed to the wrought-iron ladder hanging from the second-floor platform.
“Hmm, maybe two days.” He shrugged. “Don’t see as it’s a problem. All you have to do is jump up and pull it down.”
“Do you think Joe could jump up and pull it down?”
“Not likely,” Mr. Beecher said. “Old Joe had hip trouble.” Mr. Beecher walked over to the ladder. “Still . . .” He pushed it back up. The ladder
Frances waved back and continued down Main. I locked the doors behind me and put the puppy down on the dropcloth–covered floor.
“I think you’re going to love the McMurphy. I know I do.” I tried not to feel silly talking to a fluffy dog the size of my fist. “Come on. Let’s make sure we’re alone.”
While I checked all the closets and behind the counters of the first floor, the puppy piddled . . . twice. “Really?” I muttered and grabbed her up. I don’t know why I thought if I held her she would stop piddling.
Needless to say I shot out to the back door and across the alley to a small patch of grass. I kept the puppy at arm’s length until I set her in the grass. My jeans were wet and clung to my leg. As for the pup, she sniffed the grass, suddenly concerned about where she peed. I shivered while she turned figure eights until she found just the right spot and squatted.
The sides of the McMurphy were attached to the Bristol T-shirt shop on one side and the Old Tyme Photography shop on the other. Neither place was occupied at the moment. The McMurphy was wide. The back of each level had a prerequisite door. The second and third floors opened up to a black wrought-iron fire escape that had been put in sometime during the turn of the twentieth century.
There was a light outside of each door that turned on when the sun set. I noticed that the escape ladder was pulled down, meaning anyone could climb up to the second or third level.
“I wonder how long that’s been like that,” I said to myself.
“Are you talking to the dog?”
I gasped and turned to find Mr. Beecher, one of Papa’s card buddies, walking down the alley. He wore a brown coat that hung open to reveal a tweed sweater, a brown vest, and a white-and-brown button-down with the collar open. His corduroy pants and brown shoes lent him an air of old-world elegance. Maybe it was the cane he used or the fedora that sat on his head as if he stepped out of a 1940s movie. “Mr. Beecher, you startled me.”
His brown eyes were watery and gentle. “Your pup is wandering off.” He pointed with his cane. I followed it to see the puppy, nose to the ground, following the alleyway as if she could find her way back home.
“Thanks.” I scooped her up and she licked my chin. “What are you doing back here?”
“Shortcut to my place,” he stated as he strolled over and stopped to look at the McMurphy. “Heard about old Joe. Darned shame.” He eyed me. “It had to be difficult finding him so soon after your grandpa’s death.”
“It was,” I admitted and hugged the puppy.
“I heard that the town is taking sides over it.” He shook his head. “Darned fools. A man is dead and they’re making a game out of it.”
“Thank you.” It was good to finally find someone with reason. Then I noticed the purple ribbon on his coat. “Wait, you’re siding with the Jessops?”
He shrugged. “Liam beat me at the last ten card games, the old cheat.”
“Oh for Pete’s sake . . .”
“Now don’t get yourself all worked up,” he said. “My black coat has a green ribbon. Old Joe was a mean bastard. Like I said, foolish to take sides.”
I tried not to frown. “Just out of curiosity, how often do you walk back here?”
“Oh, once or twice a day depending on how my knees feel. I usually cut through when they’re unhappy. Why?”
“Do you have any idea how long the fire-escape ladder’s been down?” I pointed to the wrought-iron ladder hanging from the second-floor platform.
“Hmm, maybe two days.” He shrugged. “Don’t see as it’s a problem. All you have to do is jump up and pull it down.”
“Do you think Joe could jump up and pull it down?”
“Not likely,” Mr. Beecher said. “Old Joe had hip trouble.” Mr. Beecher walked over to the ladder. “Still . . .” He pushed it back up. The ladder
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