3 Cupcakes, Pies, and Hot Guys

by Pamela DuMond

A collective gasp rose from the audience as Mr. Bitterhausen passed by them and smiled.

  “This isn’t a Vegas show,” Suzy hissed. “Did Bitterhausen not get the memo? We specifically recommended tasteful bathing attire.”

  Annie said. “At least it’s not a thong.”

  “I think he’s cute.” Mrs. McGillicuddy pulled eyeglasses from her purse, slipped them over her eyes and leaned forward to get a better look. “A strapping young man. Thousands of men wear similar suits on hundreds of European beaches.”

  Annie nodded. “I’d lay dollars to donuts that the Pope wears one when he does laps in his private Vatican pool. He lives in Italy, after all.”

  “Mr. Puddleman will put a stop to this nonsense immediately.” Suzy uncrossed her orange chicken legs, pushed herself off her chair and strode toward Polo.

  “I do not care one iota that Scott Puddleman’s running this pageant like it is his private fiefdom,” Mrs. McGillicuddy said. “It’s bad enough he’s buying up all the local foreclosures for pennies on the dollar.”

  “Scott Puddleman?” Annie’s mind raced and flashed to memories of dating a seventeen-year-old guy named Scott Puddleman. There was no way this could be the same guy. Her Scott had sandy colored hair, clear skin and wide football player shoulders.

  She looked at Polo Judge posing at the mic as Suzy whispered into his ear. Polo was too tan, too steroidy gym built, too waxy… He could not be the Scott Puddleman that asked her to be his girlfriend under the bleachers at the Wauwatosa-Oconomowoc football game.

  It was not possible this was the same guy who passed her notes in history class, made her laugh, and then just a week after he fondled her right breast for ten seconds, dumped her in a crowed high school hallway between classes.

  Since that debacle, she’d despised Scott Puddleman. With every subsequent life betrayal, she silently cursed his name. But that was the old Annie. The new Annie wasn’t about to let an old grudge rule her life. But this couldn’t be the same guy. Maybe a relative. A much older cousin. A creepy uncle.

  Polo Judge Scott Puddleman dismissed Suzy with a flick of his Rolex-clad wrist. “No wardrobe malfunction. It’s first and ten on this field,” he said into the mic. The crowd roared. The guys flexed. Polo walked toward the table and winked at Annie.

  She cringed. Because the two Scott Puddlemans were indeed the same person. By willingly coming home to Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, she had put herself in the crosshairs of a dangerous game: We have changed. We are not the same as we were twenty years ago.

  Mrs. McGillicuddy’s neck practically whiplashed as she glanced back and forth at the two of them. “In a thousand years, I never would have called that.”

  “In a thousand years I beg you, never call that.”

  “You interested in the Puddleman?”

  “Right after I break out in a permanent heat rash on my upper right inner thigh shaped like Elvis’s face.”

  “Would that be so bad?” Mrs. McGillicuddy asked.

  “No. Change that to a heat rash of Scott Puddleman’s new face.”

  Mrs. McGillicuddy clasped one hand over her mouth and giggled.

  Scott leaned into Annie. His moist breath penetrated her ear and burrowed into her brain. Ew. Ew! Her boob felt crawly.

  “Welcome home, Annie Graceland. I look forward to spending quality time with you. Playing… catch up.” He walked away from her.

  Annie shuddered and marked her ballot and slipped it into the envelope that was passed around the judges’ table. Suzy handed the envelope to Scott who passed it off to a hefty woman in a floral summer dress who stood at the bottom of the stage.

  A public service announcement blared. A man with a thick English accent said, “Thank you fans for attending the bathing suit competition. The Hot Guys have a luncheon engagement at Sleepy Pines Retirement Community. For your dining pleasure, food trucks are conveniently located just down the lane in Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow’s parking lot. They offer a wide variety of lunch and liquid refreshments. A portion of each item purchased goes to Hot Guys’ charities. Do not be tardy. Remember to meet back here prior to five p.m. for the talent competition. Onward, Packers.”

  The fans got up, stretched their legs and gathered their gear.

  “One final announcement,” the PSA guy said. Static screeched through the speakers. A few folks covered their ears. One woman dropped to her knees. “Miss Annie Graceland?”

  Annie cringed. “What?”

  “Your presence is requested at your family home immediately. Excuses will not be tolerated.”

  Annie spotted Olaf rolling camera, while Stephanie commented in the background. This scene was freakin’ live on cable TV? And then she realized that was Grady’s fake English accent. “Grady?”

  “I have no idea of whom you are asking forthwith,” he announced.

  “Grady.”

  “Yes.”

  “My mom’s got some dirt on you, doesn’t she?”

  Thirteen

  Family Reunions

  Annie sat next to her Aunt Susan on an all-climate-friendly, vinyl, floral print cushioned chair on her mom’s cozy, screened-in porch. Her grandfather, Pa, sprawled in the floral rocker in the corner. “It’s good to see you home, kiddo.” He pulled a cigar out of his shirt pocket, clipped the end with nail clippers and lit it.

  Aunt Susan waved her hand in front of her nose and made a face. “That cigar is disgusting, Mr. Graceland. You’re in your late eighties. You don’t smoke. You can’t start smoking in your late eighties.”

  Pa attempted to blow a smoke ring but doubled over, hacking. “Seize the day, Susan,” he spat between gurgles. “Have I not shared my life philosophy with you one million times? It is a well-known fact that seniors can keep their minds active by taking up new hobbies.”

  “Pa. I just quit smoking. It’s not the best habit to pick up,” Annie said. “You’ll get bad breath, stained teeth, vertical wrinkles above your upper lip. Emphysema. Heart disease.”

  “I already have most of those. Besides, I read an article that said woman think men who smoke cigars are sexy. Phallic-shaped props can be a powerful aphrodisiac. A tool in the proverbial dating belt of distinguished, slightly older men.”

  “You’ll die of lung cancer,” Aunt Susan said.

  “I’ll die happy with a sexy new senior girlfriend hanging on my arm.” Pa puffed furiously, hacked some more. The ash from his lit cigar grew gray and died—before Pa did.

  Annie felt the insanity that was her family rising like a tidal wave in her brain. She closed her eyes for a moment. Breathe, she reminded herself. Breathe and remember that family drama is for the most part silliness. And people can conquer silliness, right?

  She opened her eyes. Took in the view from the porch that was her mom’s deep green grassy back yard. Several massive pine trees towered in the distance. The lot sloped down toward a quiet inlet of Lac LaBelle. A rickety wooden pier perched at the end. For many years her dad’s fishing dinghy had docked there, unused. One year she came back from college and it was missing. Her mom said a big storm had taken it to a watery grave.

  “Besides, Susan, I know you’re desperately trying to stay young.” Pa jabbed his cigar in Aunt Susan’s direction. “You’re all over the Internment on Faces Looks and other spider webby sites.” He pushed himself off the chair. “I need more casserole.” He toddled into the living room.

  “That man is determined to be the death of me.” Aunt Susan’s face flushed bright red. She fumbled through her purse, grabbed a tiny prescription bottle and popped a pill.

  “Do you have high blood pressure?”

  “Does the Pope wear a Speedo in his private pool when he does laps?”

  Annie nodded. “No man, especially a relative that’s not blood-related, needs to be the death of you. Step away. Calm down. Concentrate on something positive and healing you recently contributed to the world. Example. You stepped up to the plate with the food donation for Frank’s parents.”

  Frank perched on
a large closed cooler and eyed Aunt Susan. “That was very kind of her. I wish I had known your aunt when I was alive. We could have collaborated on our favorite charities.”

  “Thank you,” Aunt Susan said. “The casseroles were a little tricky to cut and wrap. But if properly preserved and sealed, they’ll keep in a freezer for months. As long as they can microwave, Frank’s parents won’t have to worry about preparing meals for a while.”

  “Is my mom okay?” Frank sat on a large cooler and kicked his heel nervously, repeatedly, on the front. “Did she hide Dad’s bullets? Is she eating? Sometimes when she’s upset she doesn’t eat.”

  “Is Patsy Plank eating?” Annie asked. “Sometimes when folks are mourning they forget.”

  Aunt Susan toyed with her strawberry jello pie. “Patsy didn’t want to eat at first. But I sat with her today. She talked about Frank. They’re not going to have his funeral service until after the contest ends. But she ate. A slice of spinach quiche. A small helping of Peaches Monaco’s legendary cobbler.”

  “Good.” Frank stood up and walked through the screened-in porch out onto the grassy yard, down toward the lake.

  “I know this is a touchy subject, but do you have any ideas who wanted to kill Frank Plank and why?” Annie asked.

  “I don’t have a clue who would want to kill such a nice young man. I know you’ve been through a lot, Annie,” Aunt Susan said. “Discovering your husband Mike was a cheater, separating and enduring divorce proceedings. You didn’t plan on coming home for a visit just to experience another murder, more stress and drama.” She sighed, took Annie’s hand, cradled it between her two weathered hands and drew them to her cheek.

  “I’ve loved you since the first day you were born. You were pink, wrinkled, tiny, squirmy and hollered up a storm. I held your hand, gazed into your face and I thought—here she is, Annie Graceland. She will break hearts and have her own heart broken. She will win contests and prizes and still suffer life’s indignities. Over time she’ll realize when forty people say no, she’s that much closer to the one who will say yes. She’ll learn the art of perseverance. And someday my niece will help people in her own unique way. She will make a positive difference in this world.”

  Annie’s eyes welled up. “Aunt Susan…”

  She released Annie’s hand. “Your mom’s on your case because she loves you. Perhaps L.A. is a passing fancy. Think about moving home, Annie. Unfortunately, life is short.” She leaned in and kissed Annie’s cheek. Then pushed herself off her chair and stood up. “And now I’m running inside before you get mad at me and leave the party.”

  Annie’s mom stuck her head inside the porch as Aunt Susan squeezed past her. “You’re looking a little thin, daughter.”

  “No matter how much I weigh you always think I look a little thin.”

  “I’m worried about the vegetable-arians in Los Angeles. They sound rather cultish, like all those actor types who are paleontologists. You haven’t gone and joined them?”

  “No, I’m not a vegetarian and I do believe you are referring to the Scientologists.”

  “Same things. Did you try the casserole? You need to catch up with your second cousins. They drove all the way in from Lacrosse and are in the living room. They’re dying to see you.”

  “They came for the free beer and great food. I tried to talk with them but they’re nonresponsive ’cause they’re glued to the game.”

  “If you asked them really nice, I bet they’d turn the sound down and talk with you.”

  Annie shook her head. “I tempted them with your pigs-in-a-blanket, but with the exception of Ronald, it was a no-go.”

  “They turned down my pigs?”

  Annie shrugged. “Ronald ate half the platter and the game’s a nail-biter.” She pointed to her empty plate. “The casserole was awesome.”

  “Which one?”

  “Mushroom. I should be getting back to the lodge.”

  “No-no! Your brother Carson called. Said he needs to talk with you. Something about a delicious person.”

  “A suspicious person?” Annie asked.

  “Delicious, suspicious. I’ve watched too many James Bond movies and get them mixed up. Did you try the sticky buns? It took me forever to make them extra sticky. In your honor. You’re welcome.”

  “The sticky buns were really sticky. Share the recipe?”

  “It’s in my will.” Nancy pointed to Annie’s lime green elephant pants. “In my humid opinion?”

  “Humble?” Annie said.

  “Someone, I can’t remember who, told me today that if you pinned a few marshmallows on those pants you’d look like an exotic Jell-O dessert. The local boys would find you irresistible. You don’t need to go back to L.A. You don’t need to leave here ever again.”

  “I have a life, a boyfriend and a job in L.A.,” Annie said. “Besides, marshmallows attract ants.”

  “You could have all of those here in a heartbeat in your hometown where people love you.” Nancy headed back inside the house.

  Annie watched her disappear into the kitchen. “I hate ants. And bees.”

  Annie opened the porch door and stepped outside onto the lawn. Closed it and walked onto the backyard, barefoot. The grass was warm and moist beneath her feet. She stared at the tall pine trees at the far end of her mom’s lot and headed toward them. Slid behind one and plunked her butt down on the ground. She leaned back against the tree’s solid wide trunk, gazed out at the lake and sighed.

  Annie knew she was in over her head. She would always love Oconomowoc, but she missed her cat, her job and her teensy apartment. The luscious thick emerald grass that squished between her toes felt lovely. But she really wanted to sink her feet deep into the wet sand in Venice Beach.

  And she longed for Raphael Campillio. He of the dark eyes, the sharp cheekbones, the warm and generous spirit. She pulled out her cell. She was down to one bar. But she called him. He picked up.

  “Annie?” Rafe asked.

  “Yes, Rafe! Yay! How are you? How’s the reunion?”

  “You’re breaking up on me,” he said.

  “No! Definitely not breaking up with you.” She jumped up and stomped around her mom’s back yard. “Can you hear me now?”

  “Better.”

  “Just like you’re sitting next to me. I also heard there was a murder—a young man—are you all right?”

  Annie stared at Frank, who stood on the dock gazing at the water. “It’s complicated.”

  “You knew the guy?” Rafe asked.

  “I knew the guy.”

  “Catch a flight home tonight.”

  “I can’t. I’m with my family, I’ve got this contest—”

  “Take the red-eye. I’ll pick you up.”

  “I’ve got to finish this and well, there are other things.” She couldn’t tell him she was tracking down a killer.

  “Your mom’s health?” Rafe inhaled. “She’s okay, right?”

  “That’s a definite probably, yes.”

  “Hmm.”

  “How’s your family reunion?” Annie asked.

  Rafe coughed. “Not what I expected. It’s probably good you’re not here. Not the right time to introduce you.”

  Annie forgot to breathe. She felt awful that Rafe didn’t want to introduce her to his family. But please—she’d already turned him down. Get a grip, she told herself. “I miss you,” she said.

  “I miss you more. Call me anytime.”

  “Okay?” But what she really wanted to ask was, Are we okay?

  “Come home soon. Promise me.”

  “I promise…” Annie said. But their cell connection garbled, sputtered. “Raphael?” Their connection died. “Dammit!” She smacked the phone.

  “Violence isn’t always the answer. Even though for the most part, I think it is. Glad you made it back.”

  Annie looked up at the tall, good-looking, forty-something guy towering above her. “Hey, bro.” She stood up and they awkwardly hugged.

  “Your eyes are whack
ed. You high?” Carson asked.

  “God, I wish. No. Pot makes me stupid. I do, however, feel like a deer caught in the crosshairs.”

  “That’s normal for someone who traveled two thousand miles under false pretenses. Let’s get out of here.”

  “I’m supposed to catch up with the cousins. Mom’s got casseroles. There’s no way—”

  “Yes, you can, Nancy Drew.” He beckoned. “Besides. I’ve got credible gossip on who might have killed Frank Plank.”

  “Get out of town.”

  He grinned. “We don’t have to go that far.”

  Fourteen

  Green Jell-O and Marshmallows

  Annie and Carson sat across from each other in a red vinyl booth, whose aging cushions were webbed with skinny cracks that resembled spider veins.

  She sipped lemonade from a straw in a huge glass that sat on the clean Formica top between them. Carson nursed a beer. A large neon sign over a well lit bar proclaimed “Lucky Strikes Bowling Parlor!” A TV over the bar was tuned to WNOC and featured Stephanie Storms interviewing another Hot Guy.

  “Give on the credible gossip,” Annie said.

  “Shhh. Use your inside voice.” Carson ducked his head and glanced around.

  “What?” Annie asked.

  “There are spies everywhere. Everybody wants insider info on the contest. I’ve heard rumors about an illegal betting ring.”

  “Shocker. What is it this time? Boxing? The ponies? College sports?” Annie watched Carson as his attention turned to a pretty woman hoisting a ball several lanes over.

  She tossed that ball down the lane and threw a strike. A young boy stepped up behind her, pitched two gutter balls, threw his hands up in the air and yelped in frustration. She leaned toward him, smoothed his hair and spoke softly.

  Frank stood next to the woman and tried to pick up a bowling ball.

  “No, goofy head,” Carson said. “Bets are on who’s going to win, place and show at the Hot Guys contest.”

  “Frank Plank was involved in an illegal betting ring?” Annie asked.

  Despite his bulging arm muscles, Frank still couldn’t make that ball budge. “No!” Frank said. “I was not involved in a Hot Guys betting ring. And FYI—another thing dead guys can’t do?” He shook his head in disgust. “Lift a ten-pound bowling ball. Being dead sucks.” He stalked off toward the bar.