And Diary, I know that you will—Ack! Oh nos! I’m hallucinating!
Mack is sitting on my couch and rubbing Theodore’s head.
Hang on. This can’t be right. Did I have tequila tonight? I only ordered Apple-tinis. Tequila makes me hallucinate. I know—I’ll just close my eyes, stop writing for a second, take deep breaths and everything will be fine. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
Ack! He’s still in my apartment. There’s a big, fat, sooty tire imprint on his white dress shirt that also runs across half his face. Oh nos! He’s pushing himself off the couch and grinning as he lurches toward me—his arms outstretched like he’s going to try and hug me, or tickle me.
“Rrrr! Annie Graceland!” He said, “Mack ‘The Man’ McManus is in your house!”
Help me, Diary! HELP!
Annie
Chapter 16
Worst Ex-Girlfriend Ever
MACK
Dear Diary,
I used to think my ex-girlfriend Annie Graceland was kind of hot. Now I think she is kind of bat-shit-crazy.
Do you realize I have been stuck at her place for almost a day now? After she screamed and nearly broke Mack’s eardrums, she keeled over onto her couch and slept it off—whatever it was—and I was stuck watching Law and Order reruns for hours while I petted her cat. When she finally woke up, she looked at me, blinked, screamed again, and then shuffled dejectedly into her kitchen where she downed some Advil and made coffee.
I asked her to pour me a cup but she said, “No.” She muttered gibberish, sliced some bagels, stuck them in her toaster oven, called into work and fake coughed into the phone. She rasped that she was sick, probably highly contagious, and couldn’t make it in today. She flipped on Pandora and “Little Red Corvette” by Prince was the first song to play.
I smiled because I knew what this was really about—she wanted to spend the day with me. We’d reminisce about old times, then get busy and catch up for real. She grabbed the bagels from the oven, dropped them onto a plate and slathered them in cream cheese. I said thank you, I’d love the onion one, hun.
That’s when she pointed the knife at me and told me to shut up, leave her alone, or she’d stab me—even though it wouldn’t matter. She’s like the worst ex-girlfriend—ever.
But what’s even crazier? I have no idea how I got to Annie’s place. Here’s what I do remember…
Following the WEPOC banquet and awards presentation, a few of my new salesman buddies hit the Repeat the Beat Gentleman’s Club. Devin Dylan of Marina Del Rey, California Cadillac admitted that he was jealous that I beat him out for the #2 WEPOC slot. (He tied for #3). But over the course of several hours, Dev and me became pal-sies, bought each other a few rounds, and a couple of lap dances. We promised to FB and share tricks of the trade. I even confided in him the other reason I was in town.
I said my fond farewells to my salesman buddies in the parking lot of the club well after midnight. We promised to meet up again soon.
Tubbie Parte’: the older, sassy, chubby stripper walked out of the side door of the joint and waved at us. “Enjoy the rest of your trips, Gents! Remember that Tubbie gives a WEPOC discount. Six dances for the price of five, offer good only during the convention.” We thanked her for her kind offer, but it was time to call it a night.
Alone at last, I ambled to my rental car in the far corner of the open-aired parking lot and chanted, “I am number two! I am number two!” as I thrust my trophy up in the air. Speaking of rentals—of course I popped for a Caddie—WEPOC’s a class act and arranged an official discount for us out-of-towners.
In the near distance, an inconsiderate, moron driver gunned a car’s engine. Why didn’t people understand that cars, like children, are sensitive souls? In the low glow from the streetlight almost half a football field length away, I spotted the source of the revving—a late model Caddie sedan.
Yes, Caddies are tough old birds with shiny coats, but they too deserved tender love and care. The car’s driver flashed the brights, blinding me, and accelerated in my direction. I froze, startled, until I realized this baby was headed straight toward me. I stumbled to the right, heard the tires screech, felt a harsh impact on my stomach and hip that knocked me backward onto the ground and stunned me. Then my head cracked soundly on the pavement and I don’t remember anything after that moment until I ended up at Annie’s apartment.
Where she is now holding me prisoner.
Here are my complaints:
Not only is she not feeding me, every time I try and leave her place I am stuck at the door or a window. Literally stuck. I simply cannot escape her jail. I would be fine with this if she wanted me to be her sex slave for a few days, but, oh no—she has spurned my advances enough times, that I don’t even ask anymore. Okay, fine. I still ask.
Not to be totally whiny, Diary—then she gave me you.
Annie thrust you—a black spiral notepad—into my hands and I watched as you sunk through my fingers into my legs while I screamed in terror. And instead of being soothing, like she used to be back in college, now she was just plain mean. She insisted that I needed to pick you up with the power of my ‘intention.’
“What’s intention?” I checked my pants to make sure I hadn’t wet myself.
“Willpower,” she said. “Like when you’re trying to con someone into buying a used car that you know is a lemon and they’re resisting your charms. And yet, you persist because you really want the sale.”
“A-ha!” Apparently needing to pay my alimony, determination, willpower and intention share similar DNA—just like first cousins. I shut my eyes for a second, thought about selling that car and—whoa! Like magic I pulled you, Diary, out of my lap and back into my hands. Now I’m journaling onto your pages, which is actually my next complaint.
Nothing personal Diary, but why is Annie making me write in you? She says I need to channel and record all of my grief, fears, and memories so she can help me pass to the light. What light is she talking about? When I ask her that question, she just shakes her head, swears under her breath, and throws her hands up in the air.
So I went for the tickle. But she seemed to sense my move, dodged to the left and evaded me. She grabbed a cupcake from her fridge and started munching on it in front of me. Didn’t even ask me if I wanted one. This was the final straw. “Mack’s just trying to have a little fun, Annie,” I said. “It’s been great catching up with you, but, honestly, you are disrespecting my boundaries.”
“Me?” she hissed. “I’m disrespecting your boundaries?”
“You’re keeping me hostage in your miniscule apartment with your adorable cat, but frankly, Mack needs to get back to his life. While it’s been simply awesome catching up with you after all these years (remind me never to friend on old girlfriend on Facebook again), previously owned vehicles don’t sell themselves, you know? I need to leave, now.” I walked the few feet toward her front door, determined to break through the invisible fence that surrounded her apartment.
She plunked down on a stool at her kitchen counter and waved at me. “Have a nice trip.”
I placed my hand on the doorknob. “Please call me if you ever need a pre-owned vehicle. I’ll always be the man who will get you a great deal.” I twisted the handle but it didn’t budge. “What in tarnation is going on here, Annie Graceland? Are you punishing me for dumping you for Bailey Bubeck? I’m sorry, I truly am, but there was gold in those hills.”
“I think you meant the cheap body glitter smeared across her budget augmented cleavage.” She finished her cupcake and brushed the crumbs from her hands.
“Why won’t you let me go? Why have you gotten so mean?”
“I’d love for you to go, Mack. Leave, I beg you. Shoo! Be gone! But I’m not the mean one. The person who killed you is the mean one.”
“That’s crazy talk, girl.” I glanced down at my trembling hands. “I’m a living, warm-blooded man.” Theodore looked up at me and purred. “Your cat adores me. Woul
d a cat like a ghost? Mack is not dead.” I shivered and suddenly felt cold down to my very bones.
“My cat thinks his reflection in the water bowl is another cat,” she said. “As much as I love Theodore, he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed. I hate to break this to you Mack—you’re dead. Have you looked at your shirt?”
“No, I’ve been looking at yours.” She was wearing a low-cut T-shirt that highlighted her girls.
Annie sighed. “Hang on.” She shuffled to her bathroom, returned with a hand mirror, and held it in front of me. “I’m sorry. Take a peek.”
So I did. “I see my handsome mug has a bit of a smudge on my right cheek.”
“Right. Look again.” She angled the mirror down.
“There’s a fat tire tread mark on my white dress shirt, a little blood, and I’m missing a couple of buttons. Oh no! Can a dry cleaner get those stains out? Mack’s strapped for cash and can’t afford another dress shirt right now. Oh, God, what’s Mack going to do?”
Annie sighed. “I’m calling for back-up.”
Dear Diary—Mack is not feeling good. Mack is definitely off his game. Mack is scared.
Adios, buddy.
Must go see a man about a horse.
Mack
Shoo Fly Pie
by Author J.M. Kelley
Ingredients:
Crumb mixture—which will be lumpy. Set aside about ½ cup to top pie.
1 tbsp. shortening
2/3 cup brown sugar
1 cup flour
Filling:
1 egg beaten
¾ cup water, boiling
1 cup molasses, the thicker the better
1 tsp. baking soda
1 unbaked refrigerated pie crust
Directions:
Combine soda with boiling water.
Add egg and syrup.
Add crumb mixture.
Pour into piecrust and top with the set-aside portion of crumb mixture.
Bake at 375 degrees for about 10 minutes, and then lower the temperature to 350 degrees. Continue to bake until firm, usually about 40 minutes.
Pie should be gooey but somewhat firm, and bottom crust usually turns out rather moist, that suits the nature of this sweet treat!
Chapter 17
The Village People
DR. DERRICK
Dearest Diary,
Annie says she doesn’t need me, want me, and can’t wait to get rid of me. So who shows up when she needs help? Me. I’ll take all those good karma points because she never actually reached out to me.
Instead she called wannabe Grady, who phoned trampy Julia, and somewhere in the hum of their scatter-brained energy field, I heard my name bandied about. That’s when I decided to pay a visit to the hen party at Annie’s hovel in the ’hood.
I hovered on the ceiling and watched as Annie paced across her single apartment, alternating between throwing her hands up in the air, and pointing to the dead guy slumped on her couch, petting her very fat cat, Pompadour, who purred loudly.
Julia had already mixed herself a cocktail even though it wasn’t cocktail hour yet anywhere in the United States. She sipped it as she perched on a stool in the kitchen that overlooked Annie’s walk-in closet, oops, I meant living room.
Grady sat on the floor, legs akimbo, worriedly rubbing his temples above the stems of his new designer glasses that he hoped would make him look retro and writer-ly. I knew the look he was going for. That look, however, would not help him get words on the page.
Besides myself, the most interesting character in the room was the newly minted ghost, Mack McManus. He sported an enormous tire track running up his cheap white top that he probably thought passed for a dress shirt. The dirty imprint continued onto half of his face, which appeared completely confused. Poor guy.
I remember what that moment felt like: the first time you wake up dead and you’re perplexed. You don’t know if you’re dreaming, or awake. Until you ultimately have the sinking sensation that you’re actually dead—which is a stupendously sucky moment.
“Oh, my God!” Grady said. “I can’t believe you’ve got another dead guy in the house!”
Mack punched his arm half-heartedly into the air. “Mack ‘The Man’ McManus really wants out of Annie’s house.”
“I can believe it,” Julia said. “Annie’s like a dead-guy magnet.”
“I am not.” She huffed. “Just six months ago, I helped Edith Flowers find her killer and go to the light. Yes, she was dead—but clearly she was a woman. Look—I have a dilemma and I need your help. My mother planned a sneak attack aka surprise visit. She’s coming out to L.A. for Thanksgiving.”
“How did she book a flight last minute?” Julia slurped her cocktail.
“Nancy’s got her fingers in a lot of pies,” Annie said. “Who knows whom she blackmailed or what kind of favor she called in. Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I can’t be solving Mack’s murder while she’s underfoot. I also cannot be dealing with Mack haunting my house while mom’s in town.”
Grady thrust his hand high in the air. “I volunteer! Mack can stay at my apartment while Nancy’s in town.”
Mack glared at Annie. “I don’t even know him.”
“Thanks Katniss-I-mean-Grady. But this isn’t The Hunger Games. Besides, I have no idea how to get Mack, a newly minted ghost, over to your apartment. Do we drive him? E-mail him? Messenger him? It’s confusing.” Annie frowned. “Mom knows I’m slightly psychic and pretends—badly, might I add—to ignore it. If she catches me talking to a dead guy or solving a ghost’s homicide—there will be hell to pay. We’ve got to solve Mack’s murder, do it quickly, and send him to the light.”
“Maybe you should be thinking about sending me to the light. After all, I’ve been dead for longer than Mack.” I dropped to the floor, as light as the air I flew through, stood up tall, stretched my arms overhead and swiveled my hips from side to side.
Mack screamed. “There’s a man from The Village People in your living room!”
Annie’s eyes narrowed. “You mean the ¾ naked guy wearing the silver Pucci thong?”
“I don’t know what a Pucci is!” Mack swiped the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead.
“Pucci’s a prestigious designer,” I said. “Just like a Cadillac.”
“Who are you?” Mack shook his head. “And why are you wearing a G-string?”
“It’s a thong,” I said.
“His name is Derrick,” Annie said. “He died in that outfit. I’ve tried to cover him on multiple occasions, but it just doesn’t work.”
“Derrick’s here?” Grady glanced around the room.
“My name is Dr. Derrick Fuller. I am the beloved author of the I Promise You Can Change Your Life self-help book series. And I am here to help you, Mack. I am here to help you change your life.”
“Good luck with that one, Derrick,” Annie said. “Mack’s already dead.”
“How can Mack change his life?” He cowered as Pompadour treaded his fat paws across his thighs. “Things look pretty grim right now.”
When a brilliant idea illuminated my brain and I extended my arm to the disheveled, dead guy. “Take my hand, Mack.”
“I don’t know, buddy.”
“Trust me. Take my hand. Because I, Dr. Derrick Fuller, promise you—”
“Take a second look at his silver thong, Mack.” Annie said. “Because I promise you that hand he’s offering has fondled its contents. Frequently.”
“Pay her no attention, Mack. I’ve built a veritable empire promising as well as delivering a lot of things to a lot of people. And now, I, Dr. Derrick Fuller, beloved of Oprah, promise to be your personal coach. Your biggest fan. Your best friend, and the spirit who will help solve your crime and guide you to the light. And when you pass over to the Afterlife—well, from what I hear, it’s all sweet from there on out. It’s hot Vegas babes, vintage Caddies, Frank Sinatra, the man himself, serenading you—”
“A hot tub with the blonde twenty-one-ye
ar-old twin ladies in town from Minneapolis?” Mack asked.
“I’ll work on it,” I said.
“Wait a minute, Derrick,” Annie said. “You think that you’ll get to pass to the Afterlife with him—don’t you?”
“It’s good karma, Cupcake.”
“No more alimony?” Mack asked.
“A beautiful thing, my man,” I said. “You see, Mack, being dead really isn’t all that bad once you pass to the Afterlife. Being stuck on earth when you’re dead—that’s the bad part.”
“Derrick, I’m fine with you helping,” Annie said. “I’d love for the both of you to pass quickly—like a mild case of food poisoning—before Mom gets into town.”
“I fear you are confused, Annie,” I said. “I’m here to be a shoulder for Mack. Not to allow you to slack off and shirk your duties.”
“Shirk?” Annie’s shoulders rose so fast they nearly slammed into her ears. “I’m the hardest working chick on the planet. I have never, ever,” she finger quoted in the air, “‘shirked’ my duties.”
“Stop letting that irrelevant asshat, Derrick whatever his-last-name-was, upset you. I’m making us cocktails.” Julia hopped off her chair and made her way to the fridge. “Something fruity. It’ll count toward our five daily servings of fruits and veggies requirement. Piña colada or margarita?”
“Do you see why I need to go to the Afterlife?” I asked Annie. “I will always be relevant. I will not tolerate the rampant disregard for the dead.”
“Piña. You know she can’t do tequila,” Grady said. “Could you make me one, too?”
“Mack wants to know if this is all you people do? Do you just sit around and argue, eat, and drink too much inside of this closet-sized apartment?” He asked. “Or do you actually have a plan on how to figure out who killed me? Because Mack thinks that hanging around with you, in this place, might actually be hell on earth.”
The Annie Graceland Cupcakes Cozy Mystery Box Set #2: Books 5 - 7 Page 6