The Annie Graceland Cupcakes Cozy Mystery Box Set #2: Books 5 - 7
Page 2
Thank you for listening Finley. You are a kind soul. And a wonderful sounding board for my National Writing Month endeavor. I am so grateful we are getting to know each other.
Best,
Your new friend,
Grady Swenson
Chapter 3
Whatever
JULIA
Dear Diary,
Whatever.
I have to write boring lawyer stuff all day long and defend some folks that deserve to be defended, and other folks who I know are guilty from the get-go, but hey, it’s America, and they still have a right to a free defense.
At night, I edit my dating profile on Plenty-Of-fish, J-Date, Christian Singles, Tender, E-Harmony, Zoosk, and Matchdotcom . I do squats, push-ups, and a few abdominal crunches. I get dressed up, put on a little make-up, go out, and meet someone for a date.
It might be a simple coffee get together that could turn into a weekend affair, or it might be ten minutes of “yeah, this is going nowhere quickly.” Then I call my friends, Annie and Grady, and we meet up for burgers and laugh about whatever happened during our day. ’Cause that’s how we roll, you know?
As much as I’d love to support my buddy, what was Grady thinking? I don’t have time to write in a freaking diary? Sorry, no harm or foul meant to you, sweets.
Catch you later,
Julia Devereux
SWF. Looking for: DM, SM, Age: 30-50. Race: All. Religion: No preference. No smokers please! Check out my profile at julialovesromancedotcom. Serious inquiries only. Looking forward to hearing from you.
Chapter 4
Feeling Full
DR. DERRICK
My Dearest Diary,
I received your missive in my ‘psychic’ e-mail box (which resides somewhere in my energy field, apparently now that I’ve died, and still haven’t passed to the Afterlife) most likely due to the mishandling of my situation by the reluctant slacker, wannabe psychic, Annie Graceland.
Yes, Annie discovered who murdered me, and brought my killer to justice. But I also believe she must have done something terribly wrong, as I still haven’t passed to the Afterlife. So, instead of enjoying the heavenly fruits of my earthly labors, I pass along the sorry streets of Los Angeles, California where I rub up against the dirty, downtrodden, and ordinary masses.
Disgusting. Just, downright disgusting.
To make matters worse, I no longer have my mansion, my trophy wife has moved on with her life, I can’t take dips in my infinity pool, nor can I indulge in any of the culinary delights that this squalid city offers.
Therefore, Dearest Diary, while I appreciate your interest in an interview of sorts, I would prefer that you contact my most recent manager, Madison Morgan, instead of reaching out to me directly…
Oh right, you can’t do that, because I’m officially deceased.
Sigh.
The ugly reality, Diary, is that no one tells you before you die that someday, after all the legal fighting is over regarding who inherits what—your estate might be represented—but you will not. Reason being?
You’re dead. And once you’re dead? Your estate has rights, but you, as a person—a soul—do not. I’ve recently discovered this grossly unfair and negligent loophole in the legal system. But try changing the law once you’ve been officially declared dead.
I know this whole ‘Dear Diary Campaign’ is an effort to support Annie Graceland’s overly earnest friend, Grady Swenson, in his desire to write something that is the slightest bit commercial. But, you must remember that when I was still alive—which wasn’t all that long ago—I was a beloved, best-selling, and revered self-help author, popular seminar leader, and internationally acclaimed public speaker.
So perhaps, Dear Diary, we can turn the tables a bit—and I can actually help you.
I suggest we take the dilemmas and questions that arise from this pathetic NaNoWriMo Event, and spin them into something that could benefit millions of people that watch shows like Dr. Phil, Dr. Oz, The Duck Brothers, and perhaps even the viewers of Kathie Lee and Hoda.
It’s obvious to me, from the lack of decent talk shows, as well as reality show programming, that my presence is sorely missed. Feeling Full with Dr. Fuller would have been a phenomenal addition to any TV network’s roster and a ratings blockbuster.
Sincerely,
Dr. Derrick Fuller, Ph.D.
Chapter 5
King Cadillac
ANNIE
Dear Diary,
I’ve been voluntarily trapped inside my saggy, overpriced, pathetic studio apartment in Venice, California, all freaking day, as I’m determined to perfect a new recipe. While Julia teases me about losing my bakery business, and going to work at Mort Feinberg’s Deli in the back back kitchen—she’s actually spot on.
My boutique bakery business took a nosedive when Dr. Derrick Fuller was killed with a poisoned Piccolino’s Bakery dark chocolate cupcake. Yes, I baked the cupcake, but I wasn’t the one who injected it with cyanide, and I didn’t kill the colossal jerk. Even though, as Derrick continues to haunt me, I really wish I had.
As much as I adore Mr. Feinberg and his deli, I do want my own bakery business again some day. Meanwhile, I’m working my ample behind off in the deli’s back back kitchen and hoping enough time passes that people forget that pompous, know-it-all windbag, Derrick Fuller, and that I can get on with my life.
Back to the new recipe: it’s a Thanksgiving-inspired cupcake with organic pumpkin puree and spices. Whee! I whipped up a large bowl of batter and poured that mixture into the cupcake tins when my twenty-pound, long-haired, Himalayan-mix cat—Theodore von Pumpernickel—decided to knock over a glass of water on the coffee table to get my attention.
After I screamed bloody murder at him in a kind and gentle fashion, I raced five feet to my table and rescued my laptop. I frantically dabbed the drops of water off my computer with the hem of my T-shirt and then typed in my password to make sure it still worked. Everything opened up on the screen like clockwork. Phew! I logged onto my Internet connection and that worked as well. I totally skated over this near debacle! After all that stress, I needed a much-deserved break, so I clicked onto Facebook.
I watched two ridiculously cute cat videos, and acknowledged but ignored the ad for the dating service that informed me Fireman Bob had viewed my profile and wanted to meet me. (What profile?) A friend’s relationship status had changed to “It’s Complicated” which made me want to direct message her to find out what the heck happened. But I knew that would turn into an hour chat and resisted because I didn’t have the time. I could smell the cinnamon and nutmeg wafting through the air, beckoning me back to the kitchen.
I was signing out when a new Friend Request lit up on my page. I clicked on it. Oh God, Diary. I was totally not prepared for this.
“Mack McManus wants to be your friend.”
“You have one mutual friend—Julia Devereux.
Mack ‘The Man’ McManus lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. He has 665 friends. Ask him about where he went to High School. Ask him about where he went to College. Mack likes automobiles, Cadillacs, The Walking Dead, The Grateful Dead, Six-feet-Under, Pet Sematary, The Terminator, and taxidermy.”
Mack likes a lot of dead things, Diary, and this was starting to freak me out a bit. Did Julia tell Mack about my latest psychic development? If she did, rest assured I would no longer be her designated driver for her speed dating events and the obligatory celebratory cocktails imbibed thereafter.
I peered at my computer and continued to read Mack’s profile as all the little hairs on my arms stood up like soldiers on alert.
His profile picture seemed to smile at me: He appeared to be twenty years old, attired in a football uniform complete with a helmet on his pretty head as he cocked the ball high in the air behind his head, looking where to hail that puppy for the game-winning pass.
I quickly scanned his other photos: he had some salt in his dark brown hair, his teeth were white, his smile perfect, and he was in great shape.
Ack! A small squeak escaped from my lips as I realized Mack “The Man’ McManus just requested to be FB friends with me.
How could this even be possible, Dear Diary?
Mack McManus was the guy I dated for a semester, junior year in college. Mack ‘The Man’ McManus was the guy whom I rounded second, made it to third, and eventually landed at home plate for the very first time—ever.
Okay—fine, if I counted, I hit home plate with Mack about one hundred and fifty times after that. Being with Mack made me totally cool for the four and a half months I dated the gorgeous, built, captain of the football team.
My reign as unofficial queen of University of Wisconsin, Whitewater, ended abruptly when Mack dumped me the very day football season ended, and took up with the incredibly simple-minded, albeit surgically perky, Bailey Bubeck—whose father, Bob Bubeck owned all five Cadillac dealerships in the county. They announced their engagement the end of Mack’s senior year, and when he wasn’t picked in the NFL draft, he married Bailey, and went to work at King Bubeck’s Cadillac Empire.
I’m sorry Dear Diary—but what the hell was Mack ‘The Man’ McManus thinking sending me an FB friend request? While his wife might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, I didn’t think she’d want her husband friending—even on Facebook—his ex-girlfriend.
What would you do, Dear Diary? Would you ignore him, delete the request, or accept just to be nice. I mean, he still looks like the old Mack. I know, I know—it’s probably an old photo.
Oh, enough about me, Diary. I hope all is well with you. I have a tendency to go on about myself in these entries. I don’t even really know how this helps Grady. He says positive energy wafts from these journals, surrounds and hugs him tightly, encouraging him to work very hard to do what he loves. And I’m all for positive energy.
If you have any great advice, Diary, feel free to give me some kind of sign—I’m usually open to stuff like that.
Must go. My cat Theodore is swatting my leg, and I now have three bloody pinprick holes in my shin. It must be wet-cat food feeding time again.
Xo,
Annie Graceland
Pumpkin Spice Cupcakes
by Laura Devries, Professional Baker
This recipe is super-easy and doesn't even need a mixer if you don't want to use one.
Ingredients:
4 large eggs
2 cups granulated sugar
1 cup canola oil
15 oz. pumpkin
2 cups cake flour
2 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
1 3/4 tsp. pumpkin pie spice
Combine first 4 ingredients in a large bowl. Mix at medium speed until smooth.
Combine flour and next 5 ingredients. Stir flour into wet mixture until well blended.
Line cupcake pan with paper liners, and fill 3/4 full.
Bake at 350° approximately 22 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.
Vanilla Cream Cheese Frosting
Ingredients:
1 package 8 oz. cream cheese, softened.
4 tbsp. butter softened
1tsp. pure vanilla extract
1 pkg. (16 oz.) powdered sugar
Directions:
Using a hand mixer or stand mixer, beat cream cheese and butter until smooth.
Add vanilla.
Add powdered sugar gradually and beat until light and fluffy.
Frost cupcakes after they have cooled.
Chapter 6
Happy Hour
JULIA
Hey Diary,
I arrived a little early at Chaz on Main Street in Santa Monica, California, a local hipster watering hole, and I must say I’m feeling pretty optimistic about tonight. My short, blond hair is coiffed in a sassy, flattering style, my lipstick is poppy red which complements my complexion as well as my blue eyes, and I’m wearing a dress that shows off my girls but isn’t overly suggestive for a meet and greet style first date.
I’m sitting at the bar waiting for my ‘date’ to show. It’s happy hour and the cocktails as well as the sushi are half price. I recently discovered that sushi has hidden calories. You think you’re eating raw fish and that’s totally watching your diet—right?
Wrong. According to the calorie police, a couple of California rolls have about as many cals as a Big Mac with a side of small fries. So, as my grandmother Alta Kirkland Devereaux, always said, “If I don’t watch my girlish figure, no one else will, either.” Therefore, I’m forgoing the half-price sushi and having a little cocktail while I wait for my J-Date, David Bernstein, to arrive.
We’ve chatted a few times online. David’s funny, divorced, an entertainment attorney, and likes to play tennis. Who knows? It’s all a crapshoot, right? Maybe we’ll hit it off, fall in love, and thirty-five years from now, our beloved grandchildren will run their chubby hands over my wrinkle-free, expertly lifted face, and say, “Bubby Bernstein, we love you so much. You’re the youngest Bubby on the block!”
Or, perhaps, after tonight’s date, David will walk me to my car, try and swipe a kiss and promise to get in touch with me.
And maybe he will? Or, maybe I’ll never hear from him again. But all’s fair in love and war because that’s the way this game is played.
Bye for now… oh wait—one more thing.
I think Annie’s pissed off at me because I accepted her former flame, Mack ‘The Man’ McManus’s FB request, and now he’s trying to ‘friend’ her as well. Whatever. It’s not like he lives in the same town as she does. How bad can it get?
Seriously, Diary, who cares about this stuff? An old beau surfaces on FB. Happens almost daily for me. You accept their friendship. If the guy makes a lewd comment you just shut them down with a lewder comment, or you un-friend and block them. It’s no big deal, right?
IMHO? Annie needs to suck it up, be less sweet and emotional, and grow a pair. On the other hand, one of the reasons we love her is because she wears her heart on her sleeve. That hasn’t changed since I knew her in high school. In the last twenty years, she’s gained a few pounds—haven’t we all—sports a few more twinkle wrinkles, but she’s still the sweet, somewhat naïve chick with more-than-a-pinch of psychic ability—I mean intuition.
Gah! Should I scribble all this out?
Oh wait—I think I spotted David Bernstein! He’s super cute, has a thick head of salt and pepper hair, is dressed upscale casual, and is heading toward me with a smile on his face. Oh, squee! This might be a really, really good first date night. I’ll fill you in later!
Hugs,
Julia
Chapter 7
Cosmic Rulebook
ANNIE
Dear Diary,
I accepted Mack’s FB friend request. PLEASE DON’T JUDGE ME!
After I fed Theodore some wet cat food, I prepped the rest of the cupcakes, popped them in the oven, and set the timer. Then, like a really stupid moth to a stupider flame, I popped back on Facebook and skimmed Mack’s page.
It appeared he was divorced from Bailey, had no children, lived in Las Vegas, and worked at a used car dealership called WEPOC that had a huge online presence as well as physical locations. It also didn’t appear to be owned by his former father-in-law.
I make it a point to reach out to whomever ‘friends’ me on FB by saying, “Thanks for the friendship!” on their page. So I did that with Mack. When the timer beeped, I pulled the cupcakes from the oven and set the trays on cooling racks on my kitchen counter. I had planned a vanilla cream cheese frosting recipe—but it wasn’t going to make itself while I wasted all my time on social media.
Lucky for me, my boyfriend, Detective Raphael Campillio, had agreed to pop over for a make out session to taste test my newest concoction. After whipping up the frosting, I hopped in the shower, used a loofah to exfoliate, toweled off, and slapped on some body butter to keep my skin smooth. I threw on fresh yoga clothes: stretchy capris, a workout cami, quickly b
rushed my long, auburn hair, and pulled it back in a ponytail. I applied a light coat of mascara and swiped some rose tinted lip-gloss across my lips.
I eyed myself in the bathroom mirror: not a supermodel, but not bad for a thirty-eight-year-old divorcée who’d been through hell and back during the past year. Suddenly a chill descended through my body and I scrunched my eyes shut and shivered for a few seconds. Crap. I knew exactly what this chill was from—it was another empathic hit—this time from the presence of a ghost who was sharing the tiny room with me. Yuck.
I blinked, gazed back into the mirror and spotted the ghost of Dr. Derrick Fuller. He stood behind me, grinning widely, buck naked—except for his silver Pucci thong that he died in. I frowned for multiple reasons: one being that I wished he’d passed away in a three-piece suit, or at least tasteful board shorts. “I don’t have time for you or your latest schemes right now, Derrick.”
“I have no schemes, Cupcake,” he said. “No motives. I am pure as the driven snow. Have you missed me?”
“Perhaps if you stayed away for longer than a minute, I would miss you,” I lied.