3 Cupcakes, Pies, and Hot Guys

by Pamela DuMond

  “From what I heard, no. Frank wasn’t directly involved. But perhaps someone in this ring had a favorite contestant who wasn’t Frank. Perhaps that person stood to gain financially if Frank Plank was killed,” Carson said.

  “Oh, my God!” Annie said. “Vegas? The mob? An illegal online gaming casino?”

  “My informants tell me the ring’s local.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Because people tell their chiropractors everything. I mean, everything.”

  An older, sexy waitress swished over to their table balancing a drink tray above her shoulder. “Hey, Carson.” She placed two shot glasses in front of them.

  They looked a little weird. Annie leaned in to examine them. Carson bent forward to check them out.

  “Jell-O shots?” Annie asked.

  Carson poked his shot. It wiggled. “Definitely. Green Jell-O. Kind of like your pants. Where the hell did you get those?”

  “Mom.”

  “Should have called that.”

  “I haven’t had a Jell-O shot since I was a freshman in college at spring break in Lauderdale,” Annie said.

  Carson pointed to the shots. “Thanks, Gloria. But we didn’t order these.”

  “Compliments of Mr. Puddleman.” Gloria nodded at Scott, who perched at the bar.

  Annie grimaced. “Tell him thank you.” She pulled a five spot from her wallet and handed it to Gloria.

  “Thanks.” Gloria pocketed it and sashayed back toward the bar.

  The very tan Scott Puddleman raised his shot glass and smiled at Annie.

  She raised her shot glass back at him. Then squeezed her eyes shut and felt something that felt like Jell-O sliding down her legs. She shuddered. Ew—icky—blech. Since when did traveling back home involve so much oozing?

  She had to get a grip. She was, after all, a Midwestern girl and should be able to take as much abuse as this region of the country and its inhabitants could parcel out. She unfolded the napkin. Small, cube-shaped, fluffy white things bounced onto the table and a few fell onto her legs.

  “What the?” Carson asked.

  She leaned in and looked. They were marshmallows.

  “Why did Scott Puddleman send you marshmallows?”

  Annie blinked. Her thighs were weak. Her hands trembled. And not in good way. Suddenly she felt like a marshmallow.

  “You okay?” Carson asked.

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She gazed at Puddleman’s note. It read, “I remember our past, fon-dle-ly. Greatly anticipate more ‘under the bleachers’ special time, Marshmallow! Yours 4 Ev-R, heart, heart, heart, Scott.”

  Annie gagged. “Get me out of here. Now.”

  Annie knew time was running out and she had to be back at the lodge for the talent contest. But there was no way she’d judge that competition wearing the lime green pants that Scott Puddleman had empathically slimed.

  Carson drove her to a few mom and pop discount clothing outlets. But most stores were closing early in honor of the pageant and the holiday.

  They ended up at Nana Banana’s Boutique. Annie scoured the stores, the aisles. She wanted to buy. But inventory was low. Nothing on the racks fit or flattered her physique. She wasn’t sixteen years old and she wasn’t a size zero. Was there anything cute and cheap that could bridge the gap?

  “Come on. Let it go. You’re going to be late,” Carson said.

  “I can’t wear this!” Annie plucked at her pants. “Ever since I got back to Wisconsin things feel sticky or slimy or drooley. I need to feel courageous and strong and believe no matter what or who I run against or into I can still get things done.”

  “Because all those admirable qualities are necessary to be a beauty pageant judge.” Carson wandered off.

  Annie shook her head. All those admirable qualities weren’t important for the Hot Guys contest. They were however crucial to help find Frank’s killer.

  Frank gazed at her over the fifty percent off rack. “It’s hard enough to come home,” he said. “You weren’t planning on my death and, or being guilted into investigating it. Finish the contest or don’t. Go back to L.A. Whatever you decide, I swear we’re cool.”

  “We are not cool!” Annie hissed. “I will help find your killer if it kills me too.”

  Frank pointed to his right. Annie realized she was hollering at a middle-aged female shopper sorting through clothes across from her. The woman backed away from the rack, turned and bolted out the store.

  Nana Banana stared daggers at Carson from behind her checkout counter. “This isn’t helping business.”

  “Sorry, Nana.” Carson grabbed Annie’s elbow and shepherded her out of the store’s entrance. “What were you thinking?”

  “I need new clothes.” Annie said as Carson hustled her across the street toward his immaculately detailed pick-up truck.

  “Why? People only send you marshmallows if they think you’re pretty. You don’t need anymore clothes.”

  “Since when did you become the expert on marshmallow gifting? Do I grill you about how many guns you own?”

  “How many guns I own does not equate with how many pageant clothes you need.” Carson opened the door for Annie and gestured for her to move inside.

  “Yes it does.” She hopped inside his truck, slammed the door shut. Crossed her arms and pouted. “Besides. You’re my big brother. Big brothers are supposed to take care of things. Especially when you don’t have a dad. Big brothers are supposed to vet the guys you date. Intimidate and scare off the ones you don’t like. And kill ants. And spiders. And bees.”

  Carson opened the driver’s door and got in. “Even though you’re my sister, I still like you. But I am not your caretaker.”

  Frank Plank materialized. He perched in the middle of the front seat between her and Carson. “Arguing with a family member never gets you anywhere. Now that I’ve been dead for several days, I’m convinced that we all have unresolved karma with most relatives. So arguing is fruitless.”

  “My friend, Grady, totally steps up to the plate,” Annie said. “And he always helps me kill spiders.”

  “I only kill animals whose meat I can eat, whose pelts I can wear.” Carson fired up the engine.

  “Or whose feathers you give to Mom to hot glue onto her customized picture frames.”

  Carson coughed. “Yeah, that too.”

  “Do you know how hard it is to dust feathered picture frames?” Annie asked. “Pledge makes the feathers stick. You could try a water-based spray cleaner. But water seeps into the frame and ruins the photo. And then you find out that behind your back all your PETA friends call you The Butcher of Duckwitch.”

  “You could just not use Mom’s frames.”

  “Not use frames that were customized and given as a gift to me by my own mother?” Annie configured her index fingers into the sign of the cross and stuck them in Carson’s direction. “You can burn in mother guilt hell. I am not tempted by that possibility.” She turned her back on him and stared out the truck’s passenger window.

  “Fine!” Carson said. “I have spare clothes in the truck that you can turn into a pageant outfit. Take them, I beg you. Cover them in feathers or glitter or whatever. I don’t care. But you are not allowed to complain to me if the Hot Guys’ crowd gives you shit.”

  “For real?” Annie asked.

  “Yes, for real,” Carson said. “And FYI? Spiders freak me out. I will always hate spiders.”

  “Me, too,” Frank Plank said.

  Annie borrowed a thick leather belt from the sun burnt man, whose actual name was Mr. Billings. Turned out Billings owned a construction company in Spring Green that primarily did remodels and game-room additions. He was contemplating branching out into constructing an on-line dating site. He’d market it by featuring the occasional local celebrity, Hot Guy, sassy girl. Which explained why he was so obsessed with the contest. His only stipulation when Annie borrowed his belt was that she autograph it before she returned it.

  The belt cinc
hed her medium-sized waist over her new outfit fashioned from Carson’s hunting fatigues. She’d styled them up a bit. Cut off the legs, rolled them up into cuffed short-shorts. Ripped the sleeves off just above the elbows for that sexy, tie me up, tie me down, Twenty Shades of Taupe, look. She pulled her hair back with a long thin fabric remnant, slipped on her mom’s sunglasses, applied some tinted lip balm and looked at Frank. “Ready to find your killer?”

  “Yes, Rambo-lina.”

  Annie surveyed the talent competition from the sidelines. Mr. Butternut was drumming, his hair flying up and down like wild man Tommy Lee from Mötley Crue. Mr. Bitterhausen was scrapbooking. And Mr. Milwaukee was once again oiled up and lifting weights.

  Annie panned the Hot Guys with her hands shaped like a camera. “You’ve always been smart, Frankie. Go with your gut. Pick your suspects.”

  Frank Plank shifted back and forth on his heels. “Butternut is killing what’s left of my hearing, but I don’t think he actually murdered me. Milwaukee?” Frank pointed at the weightlifter. “No motive. He can lift more than I ever could and he has much better arms. Bitterhausen. Scrapbooking? Yeah there, you need to talk to him. Something’s definitely off with that guy.”

  “Annie Graceland!” Stephanie waved and raced toward them in all her glistening perfection, Olaf trailing behind her.

  “Her hair doesn’t move. Her skin doesn’t jiggle,” Frank said. “It’s ninety degrees and she hasn’t broken a sweat. Either she’s a vampire or there’s something else wrong with her. She could be a suspect.”

  “Can’t deal with her now.” Annie ducked her head and maneuvered her way as fast as she could through the crowd. “Excuse me.” She bounced off a teen couple intertwined on the ground making out. “So sorry,” she said to a woman after she stepped on her paper plate filled with lasagna. She drew closer to the judges’ stage.

  But at this competition, the judges were mingling with the crowd, taking in all the talent. Mrs. McGillicuddy watched Mr. Sheboygan who recited poetry. Mr. Richland Center carved small animal figurines from a large wheel of aged solid cheddar cheese. And Mr. Madison demonstrated to the onlookers as well as the female reporter from I-CHIC how to toss a football with a deadly spin.

  Annie shook her head. “On a normal day, which for me used to be defined by a day that no one is murdered, I’d agree with you. But someone tried to shoot Stephanie in front of me. The bullets recovered were most likely from the same gun that killed you.”

  “Which is why Stephanie might be a vampire.”

  Annie shook her head. “What about the judges?” She pointed to Scott Puddleman who nabbed one of Richland’s cheese figurines and popped it in his mouth.

  “Puddleman wanted to buy a couple of my dad’s properties. But Dad didn’t want to sell. Would he cave on real estate because his only son just died and he’s not thinking clearly? Maybe, but doubtful. Mom would never let Dad sign anything before she approved. She’s the voice of reason in the Plank family.”

  “Love your mom. She was always a tough cookie. What about—” Annie pointed.

  “Mrs. McGillicuddy? She always gave me Cs in high school.” Frank said.

  “Me too!” Annie said.

  “That doesn’t make her a murder suspect.”

  “Agree. Suzy Mae DeLovely? Any reason she’d want you dead?”

  “Jury’s out.” Frank bit his lip.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Um. Well. I kind of had a thing with Suzy’s daughter, Lila.”

  “What does ‘kind of’ mean?”

  “We were young. We hooked up.”

  “You played horizontal hokey-pokey with Suzy Mae’s beloved daughter?”

  “Everyone hooks up at that age. If hooking up was cause for murder, Suzy would’ve killed ten local guys.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Five years ago. Four years ago.”

  “And you haven’t had contact since?”

  “Not until she got back into town recently.”

  “Isn’t Lila engaged to some Euro dude?”

  “Prince Frederick of Fredonia.”

  “The pasty middle-aged man-like dumpling at the opening ceremonies?”

  Frank nodded.

  Annie frowned. “The smoldering raven-haired goddess sitting next to him who was practically flashing you. That’s Lila?”

  Frank nodded.

  “Prince Frederick probably didn’t see her blatant flirting due to the glare from the medals pinned onto his barrel chest. But I bet Suzy spotted it. You posed a threat to the marriage of her beloved wild-child daughter to royalty? Suzy’s definitely a suspect.”

  “I doubt it,” Frank said. “She had a benefit party for the Hot Guys pageant the night I was killed. My parents were there. Suzy Mae has an air-tight alibi.”

  “Are you sure?” Annie felt confused. “I didn’t hear anything about that party. But I lost my itinerary. Did she invite any of the other judges?”

  “Personal invites went to the entire Hot Guys Board, Friends of Oconomowoc, the judges…” His voice trailed off and he gazed down at his feet.

  “Except for me.” Annie inhaled sharply. “Wow. After all these years, it’s still high school.”

  “Maybe she thought you had the itinerary. I hadn’t planned on telling you. I didn’t want you to feel bad. I’m sorry.” He held his hand out to her.

  She ignored it. “It doesn’t matter. We all hurt each other in high school. It’s part of the curriculum. But we graduated a long time ago. At least most of us did. Right now the only thing I want to do is find your killer.”

  The loud speaker blared, “Attention fans! We hope you’re enjoying the talent competition. A gentle reminder that the top five contestants will be announced in two hours. The excitement builds….”

  Annie frowned. Then yelled toward the loudspeaker’s box high up on a pole. “Grady!”

  The announcer cleared his throat. “Of whom forthwith do you inquire?”

  “You know very well, Mr. Fancy Voice.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Fancy Voice is not allowed to talk with you. Pageant rules.”

  “What does my mom have on you?” Annie asked.

  “Testing. Testing. Bra. King. Up.” And the loudspeaker went dead.

  Exactly then, Annie felt dread bearing down on her. It filled her bones. She felt it in her stomach, which kicked up acid. Something was wrong. Something was off. It didn’t have anything to do with Grady. She turned and saw who and what that something was. High school grievances be damned. She was back on her game.

  Strawberry Daiquiri Jell-O Shots

  Ingredients:

  1 small box Strawberry Jell-O

  1 cup boiling water

  1 cup white rum (Or on the lighter side, ½ cup white rum and ½ cup strawberry juice) (Or on the lushier side, ½ cup white rum and ½ cup vodka)

  Small plastic cups

  Instructions:

  Dissolve Jell-O in boiling water.

  Remove from heat.

  Let cool.

  Mix your liquors and/or juices together. Add to cooled concoction. Stir.

  Pour into little cups.

  Refrigerate for at least two hours. Place in freezer for several minutes before serving.

  Serve to those of legal drinking age.

  Fifteen

  Bookie Blues

  Annie followed Mr. Bitterhausen as he weaseled through the crowd, hopped the barricade into the parking lot, and made his way toward a fancy silver bullet, vintage Aerostream RV. He knocked on the door, which was promptly opened. Someone with big muscular arms attired in a black suit yanked him inside and slammed the narrow metal door shut with a tinny bang.

  Huh, Annie thought. The Aerostream was upscale and appeared normal. The subterfuge wasn’t. She crouched behind the side of a large weathered Winnebago. A loud giggly tailgaters’ party took place behind it. She eyed the partiers in their foldout lounge chairs laughing, telling stories, and enjoying each other’s company while they drank beers
. Their brats and shish-kabobs roasted on a small BBQ resting on the parking lot’s blacktop.

  She spotted Dorothy Hattan and Diane O’Flaherty from her high school geometry class. Jeez, they hadn’t aged a day. Annie longed to join them. Just relax, be one of the crowd, be a normal person. Unfortunately most people who talked to ghosts weren’t considered normal. Besides, duty called, so she remained crouched, her eyes trained on the Aerostream.

  Five minutes later, her short shorts pinched her upper inner thighs on their march toward her privates. Her knees ached from squatting. And she heard something familiar, but not welcome.

  “Oh, Hubbard,” Julia exclaimed. “If only you knew how I’ve missed manly Wisconsin men.”

  If only Annie had a dime for every time Julia played the “How I’ve missed manly insert-name-of-city-county-state-country men” line, she’d have enough dough to pay for her electric bill in full and spring for a twenty dollar Chinese foot massage with a ten dollar tip.

  “Take me, Hubbard! Take me here and now.”

  No, no, Annie prayed. Take Julia anywhere except here and now. She crept and peeked around the other side of the RV. Julia was making out with Mr. Dells, who fiddled with her bra clasp but stopped every couple of seconds to ogle her still barely contained boobs. What? Had the guy never unleashed double Ds before?

  The Aerostream’s thin metal door clanged, startling Annie. She hobbled back, peered around the RV’s other corner. Two thugs with slicked back hair, wearing shiny black suits over crisp white T-shirts, stepped out of the Aerostream, surveyed the place and nodded at each other. One mumbled into his watch.

  Bitterhausen leapt down the stairs. He wore a dark hoodie and also sported a watch. A dark thick leather valise hung from his shoulder.

  “I don know ’bout this,” one thug said in a thick eastern European accent.

  “God, Ivan, you sound just like my brother. Stop worrying,” Bitterhausen said. “Everything’s going according to plan. This is just a little insurance.” He pulled the hood up onto his head and strode silently through the partying crowd. The tailgaters hollered and beckoned to him. He walked on by. He didn’t seem interested in partying.