Pamela DuMond - Annie Graceland 04 - Cupcakes, Paws, and Bad Santa Claus

by Pamela DuMond

  “Was she into the I-might-be-a-hooker look?”

  “We don’t ask what our employees do in their off-time.”

  “Super,” Annie said. “What if there are, you know…”

  “We have the costumes dry-cleaned between each major fundraising event. Look—Mr. Wong’s Dry Cleaners label is right here on the plastic bag.” Lisette pointed to the tag.

  Annie nodded. “Mr. Wong always gets out the most stubborn spots.”

  “He’s a genius,” Lisette said. “He contributed a silent auction item for the Furball event.”

  “You don’t have Mrs. Claus’s galoshes do you?”

  “No,” Lisette said. “We have—”

  Lisette held out the size eight black pumps with sky-high, platform heels.

  “But I can’t walk in heels,” Annie said.

  “You only have to walk to the cupcake tree stand and climb the ladder. It’s not that far and it won’t take you that long.”

  Annie wriggled them on and stared at the skinny wall mirror. “I feel like a piñata. What if this costume explodes while I’m wearing it?”

  “It’s reinforced with that NASA approved memory spring fabric. It’ll stretch into the next galaxy sweetie. No worries.”

  “The stripes on these tights are going the wrong way. I look ridiculous.”

  “You look darling, Mrs. Claus.”

  Annie grabbed her iPhone from her purse and smoothed the sides of the skirt looking for pockets. But there were no pockets. “My friend can put my purse in the car. But I’m expecting a phone call from my mom. She’s on a Christmas tour of Bethlehem with her Wild Women’s group. I can’t let her call go to voicemail. Where can I put my phone?”

  Lisette snatched the phone and popped it down the front of Annie’s bustier. “Go make a cupcake Christmas tree. And find your Medici who will back your bakery business.” She air kissed Annie’s cheek.

  Annie stood four rungs up on a ladder and carefully placed the cupcakes onto the multi-tiered baking stand that was designed to resemble a Christmas tree. Her baked goods had no chocolate. Her display did not include poinsettias that could poison dogs, or tinsel that could be munched on and cause bowel obstruction and emergency trips to the vet.

  Annie knew her ridiculously sexy Mrs. Santa mini-skirt was riding up her behind. She was probably mooning the swanky Sweet Paws partygoers swarming the festive ballroom below her. But she’d already decided to take a bullet for their team. Let the random pervert stare up her skirt if that would make her favorite animal charity more money. It was part of her self-less holiday donation.

  “Annie,” Grady said.

  “Unless you’re volunteering to help me,” she said, “now’s not the best time to be asking me questions.”

  “I have the solution to your ‘Mike trying to steal Theodore von Pumpernickel cat dilemma.’”

  “Awesome. Could you hand me a few cupcakes from the box down there? Going up and down this ladder isn’t easy.”

  “Got it.” Grady passed cupcakes up to her. “I’ve done some reconnaissance. There’s a cat up for adoption tonight that could be Theodore’s twin. Except it’s a she, not a he, and is about eight pounds lighter. Like half his size. But hear me out—you could adopt that cat and pretend she’s Theodore von Pumpernickel. Give her to Mike and say the vet put him on a diet. You could finish your divorce. No more fighting. No more lawyer bills. No more threatening legal documents that make your blood pressure rise. It’s genius, I tell you!”

  “Huh,” Annie said. “She seriously looks that much like Theodore?”

  “Doppelganger,” Grady said. “And she does this super cute thing when you hold out your hand to pet her.”

  “Tell me,” Annie said.

  “She hugs your fingers with her fat, hairy paws.”

  “Maybe her paws are just hairy and not really fat. Maybe her paws are average-sized and her stripes are simply going the wrong way.”

  “Oh those cupcakes smell intoxicating, Mrs. Claus. Gingerbread?” Instead of staring up her skirt like the majority of the men who passed by, Bootsy Bauerfeld gazed at Annie’s face. She held her dog, Dasher, tucked under her arm, as he squirmed a bit. Her other dog, who could have been Dasher’s twin, ran in circles chasing his tail next to Bootsy’s feet that were clad in expensive, Ferragamo, low-heeled pumps.

  “You called it Mrs. Bauerfeld! It’s so kind of you to host the Furball. Can I offer you a cupcake?” Annie asked.

  “Oh, yes!” Bootsy said.

  Annie held onto the edge of the ladder, leaned down and passed her two. “One for a snackie now and one to take home for later.”

  Bootsy nibbled on the edges and squeezed her eyes shut. “Yummy! I detect organic dark molasses.”

  “You know your ingredients,” Annie frowned. “Grady!” She wagged her finger and pointed down at Bootsy’s other small dog that was humping his leg.

  The pooch glared at Annie, narrowed his eyes, growled and skittered off into the crowd.

  Grady glanced down and then back up. “What?”

  “Don’t worry. I know a really good dry cleaner.” Annie said. “Bootsy, your dog is a bit naughty, isn’t he?”

  “Oh,” Bootsy said. “You know how puppies are.” She took another bite of the cupcake and savored it. “Are you a professional baker? Is this what you do for a living?” She squinted at her between nibbles. “You look awfully familiar. Have we met?”

  Uh-oh, Annie thought. They’d encountered each other on multiple occasions during Annie’s marriage debacle, as well as Dr. Derrick Fuller’s murder investigation seven months earlier. “Um—kind of. I used to have my own baking business until—”

  “Catch up with Bootsy later.” Derrick snapped his fingers at her. “We have a situation. Like seriously, I think this could be my moment. If handled properly, this could be my ticket to the Afterlife. There’s a problem with Bad Santa.”

  Annie glared down at Derrick and frowned. “You’ve got to be kidding me?”

  “Oh.” Booty’s eyes widened. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No, Mrs. Bauerfeld,” Annie said. “You are lovely. This has nothing to do with you. I used to have my own baking business. It was called—”

  “You don’t understand,” Derrick said.

  Kenny Dale Klausen stumbled up behind him, blinking, with a candy-cane sticking out of his chest. He veered around Derrick, Bootsy and Grady and headed toward the appetizer table.

  “Mmm. What goes with scotch, ma chèrie? Look at all the pretty cheeses. Mmm.” Kenny leaned over a cheese platter and reached for a tooth-picked sample. But no matter how many times he tried, he simply couldn’t grab a slice of cheese, a bit of sausage, or even one little cracker.

  “There’s something off with Bad Santa,” Annie said.

  “Strange name for a bakery business,” Bootsy said.

  “Have you spotted the red liquid oozing down the white fur onto his stomach?” Derrick asked.

  “Red liquid?” Annie squinted at Kenny who stumbled to a bar and attempted to suck on a champagne bottle.

  Bootsy nodded. “Yes, of course, you’ve worked up a thirst. I’ll get you some holiday punch.” Her head swiveled as she extended her free arm high in the air and surveyed the room. “Waiter? Waitress?”

  Annie wobbled on the ladder, reached out and precariously held onto one tier of the cupcake tree with her thumb and forefinger. “Don’t worry about me, Mrs. Bauerfeld. I promised Lisette I’d hurry up and finish this tree. Can we chat later?” Across the room Bootsy’s dog lifted his leg on a man wearing a pristine suit.

  “Absolutely. I need to take Dasher outside before he has an accident.” She leaned down and deposited her little dog gently on the floor. “I truly love your baking, darling.”

  “Yay!” Annie clapped her hands and smiled. Bootsy meandered toward the ballroom’s front door clutching a cupcake in one hand while her dogs yipped, yapped and followed her on her heels.

  “Stop acting like a cheerleader and put o
n your big girl psychic power panties. This Santa thing is a dilemma, and possibly a soon-to-be-debacle, that requires your immediate attention,” Derrick said.

  “Bad Santa’s simply drunk and acting out. That’s a common dilemma that will not to be upgraded to a red-alert debacle. Give him a couple cups of coffee, cut off the booze, slap him a few times and pour some ice water on his head. Better yet, let me slap him a few times. I’d enjoy that,” Annie said.

  “Dead Derrick’s here?” Grady held the baking box and his eyes widened.

  “Yes,” Annie said. “Hurry up and hand me those. I need to get this tree done and am-scray. I’ve counted ten lords a leaping staring up my skirt and one took a pic with his iPhone before I could stop him. My festive Christmas Spanx will most likely be the Timeline photo on some loser’s Facebook page before I even get home.”

  “Holy freak,” Grady said. “Dead Derrick’s here. I’m so excited!”

  “Gah—these screenwriters with their terse character descriptions are so annoying,” Derrick said. “Your friend needs to stop calling me that pedestrian nickname.”

  “Grady—his name is Derrick. Not ‘dead Derrick.’ He doesn’t like being called that.”

  “Oh my God I wish Liam were here. I totally want Liam to see you talking to Derrick.”

  “You did not tell Liam I talk to dead people!” Annie hissed. “You promised that you wouldn’t tell anyone! Besides, it’s not like I talk to a ton of dead people. And certainly not anyone all that exciting.”

  “Excuse me?” Derrick asked. “I was a best-selling self-help author. I pow-wowed with Oprah. I had an audience with the Pope. I was featured in Star Magazine. A pinch of my cremains was buried at the Yogi Meditation Shrine within spitting distance of Ghandi’s sole cremain.”

  “That’s right Annie. Not a—” Grady fake finger-quoted, “‘ton.’ Just the ones that happened to get murdered somewhere in your proximity or because they have a relationship with you.” He counted on his fingers. “Derrick Fuller after Valentine’s Day. Edith Flowers at Snotsky’s Department Store Easter sale. Frank Plank at Wisconsin’s first annual Hot Guy Contest. Rock star Slice at the music awards—”

  “Stop!” Annie shook her finger at Grady and maneuvered awkwardly down the ladder. “No one else can know this. Not one single person. It’ll ruin my life. The next thing you know I’ll be nagged by dead people everywhere to do something for them. ‘Oh Annie, can you change my will? Oh Annie, I think I left the gas on my stove before I left my house and died in the car accident. Could you go turn it off? Oh Annie, I didn’t clean my house for a month before I died. Could you just go dust, vacuum, clean the litter box and spiff things up before they find my body? What will my neighbors think? Please?’ I can’t freaking deal with all these dead people telling me what to do!”

  “I’m sure you won’t have to,” Grady said.

  “Oh Annie,” Derrick Fuller sucked in his abs, puffed out his chest and smoothed his hand over his perfectly styled hair. “Could you stop thinking only about yourself for a second and pay attention to me?”

  “You’re like that one gnat who buzzes next to your ear. And no matter how many times you try and slap that stupid gnat, it’s still there. Bugging you. Leave. Me. Alone. Derrick.”

  “I can’t right now, cupcake. You really need to watch Bad Santa.”

  9

  The Great Elf Revolt

  Kenny Klausen weaved toward his Santa throne but two elves were already perched on its arms. Another elf defiantly stood on the seat and waved his green hat in the air. “Come tell the elves your Christmas wishes,” he hollered. “As much as we love helping Santa, we actually do most of the work. We adore your beloved pets. Tell us what you want for Christmas and we will bust our tiny behinds to find it for you!”

  A murmur arose from the crowd. While there had been no line at Santa’s booth, a line now formed.

  “Sweet Paws rocks! Elves rule!” The standing Elf shoved his small hand in the air repeatedly like a rock star.

  “An Elf revolt does not require my miniscule psychic abilities,” Annie said. “This isn’t the elf version of storming the Bastille during the French Revolution. And I highly doubt sobering up Santa will give enough good karma or magical vibes that enable you to pass to the Afterlife.”

  “Watch,” Derrick said.

  Kenny strode up to the Santa throne and stared down at the elves perched on it. “Get off my chair, you green-clad short people,” he said.

  But the elves didn’t budge. They didn’t even pay him attention. Neither did the beautiful people accompanied by their pets. The photo-op line to sit with the elves grew even longer.

  “Ur. There’s something wrong here,” Annie said.

  Kenny Klausen turned and glowered at the partygoers standing in line. They chatted as they drank champagne and introduced their pets while they waited their turn. He frowned and dabbed his brow. “What’s wrong with you people? Who in their right minds wants to sit on an elf’s lap? Like, seriously, you’re in danger of breaking their tiny bones, or worse, sucking one up into a roll of fat somewhere on your body like one of those super absorbent sponges.”

  “Oh.” Annie’s hand flew to her lips.

  “You might wonder what the God-awful stench is. You’ll take shower after shower but by the time you discover the horror of what happened tonight, it will be too late. You will be an elf-killer. Do you pet-loving people really want to be elf-killers? I don’t think so. I am Santa Claus. I am the beloved holiday figure whose lap you want to sit on. I took a little break but now I’m back and more-than-ready for holiday pictures and hearing Christmas wishes. Make way, part the waters, so to speak, and let me sit on my throne.”

  But the elves didn’t budge. Worse, a few giggly partygoers placed dogs on the elves’ laps and photographs were taken.

  Kenny Klausen’s eyes bulged, but the candy-cane sticking out of his suit never even quivered as he took a few swipes with his fists at the elves—but couldn’t connect. He stumbled away from the holiday platform clutching his head. “Bad, very bad.” He started wheezing. “Must contact PSA.” He stuck his hand in his pocket. “No inhaler!”

  “Oh holy frick.” Annie clutched her head—just like Kenny—and plunked her butt down on the floor.

  “Word,” Derrick said.

  “What? What?” Grady asked. “I know it’s odd that the elves are on Santa’s throne but seriously, things could be worse. And please, Annie, cross your legs—your skirt is incredibly short.”

  Annie crossed her legs. “He’s dead isn’t he?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Derrick said.

  “Of course Derrick Fuller’s dead,” Grady said. “He’s been dead for nine months now.”

  “And yet my fans continue to place flowers on my commemorative plaque at the Shrine. But I can’t be selfish. It’s Christmas, after all. There are other souls that deserve to be mourned. No one knows Kenny Klausen’s dead. Not even Kenny Klausen. Tell him, Annie. Find his killer. Help him to pass to the Afterlife. And then all my good deeds will add up, tip me over the karmic edge and I’ll finally pass to the Afterlife as well—like I should have about two hundred good deeds ago.”

  “Fine Derrick,” Annie said. “I’ll tell Kenny Klausen he’s dead.”

  Grady inhaled sharply and clutched his chest. “OMG. Bad Santa’s de—”

  Annie whip-turned toward Grady. “Shush!” then swiveled back to Derrick “But I’m not going to find his killer. His murderer is probably still here, hiding in our midst.”

  “Wow. Bad Santa bought it. That’s tragic and sad and I’m sure children everywhere will treasure that last holiday photo they have of him,” Grady scratched his head. “And he hasn’t passed. He’s a Christmas ghost. His story is so morbid and emotional—it’s practically a TV movie waiting to be written. Hmm… Just curious, you know, from a writer’s perspective—what do you think the cause of death was?”

  “Something sharp through the heart followed by a candy cane,” Annie sa
id.

  Grady shivered. “Sounds like a crime of passion with someone who has a little flair for the dramatic. Who here wanted Santa dead? Lisette the Dragon Lady? She wasn’t all that happy with him, doesn’t take no for an answer and those green, sparkly heels of hers are definitely over the top.” Grady said. “Maybe it’s one of those squirrely elves. It could be… hey look—there’s another Mrs. Claus in the ballroom but she’s not dressed like a hooker.”

  Annie swiveled and her face blanched. “Oh my God, that’s Mrs. Claus from the Westside Mall. Bad Santa’s significant other. She looks awfully pissed. She looks really angry. She’s walking this way. Oh jeez she’s headed directly toward—”

  “You!” Mrs. Claus jabbed her meaty index finger on Annie’s breastbone.

  She tipped back off her heels and teetered but Grady caught her and pushed her upright. “Um. Yes. What about me?” Annie asked.

  “Number one. I’ve never been a fan of the sexy-Mrs. Claus look. You’re perpetuating the whole subservient Playboy fantasy that women are supposed to be dim-witted sex goddesses while men can be fat and jolly and still be lusted after.”

  “You are not dim-witted,” Derrick said. “Just slightly bubble-headed at times.”

  “Hey!” Annie frowned.

  “Number two. You’re playing Mrs. Claus tonight at this Furball party. Therefore you know where Kenny is. I can’t find him. And I need to find his sorry ass. Now.”

  Annie watched Kenny out of the corner of her eye as he tried to rifle through the silent auction baskets on the long tables.

  “Snotsky’s Department Store gift certificates—whatever,” Kenny said. “A healing day pass at the Inhale spa—I only inhale if it’s medicinal.” He chuckled. “One month free dry cleaning at Mr. Wong’s Dry Cleaners—score! But no scotch, ma chèrie. It might be just you and I, together again, for the holidays. I could live with that.” He patted his coat and glanced down. “Oh, look—a candy cane seems to have gotten stuck to us. I once knew a stripper named Candy Cane. Sweet girl. Why are the elves so mean?” He hacked and patted his chest. “Damn asthma.”