“And, thank you,” I said.
“Skip the cocktails, Julia,” Annie said. “I’ve got to be razor sharp. I’ve got to focus. We have to figure out who killed Mack before one wheel of Nancy’s plane bounces off the tarmac at LAX in a little over a week from now.” She walked to her couch and grabbed Pompadour from Mack’s arms. “I appreciate you being sweet to my cat. But I need you to think. Besides me—and I’m completely innocent, by the way—who’d you piss off enough to want you dead?”
And that, Dear Diary, was the question of the day. I am totally looking forward to finally passing to the Afterlife. Good God, it seems if you want something done correctly—just do it yourself.
Of course, Annie acted like this had to be a group effort, insisted we all stand around in a circle, holding hands, channeling “positive energy”, and practically singing “Kumbaya” as we promised to not only chronicle our search for Mack’s killer in our Diaries, but also promote finding his killer on Twitter posts with the hashtag: #SendMacktotheLight.
I pointed out to her that Twitter might not be the best venue to find clues. Besides, what if her mom was on Twitter? She promptly shushed me, and chanted the refrain to “All You Need is Love” until Grady started fidgeting, and finally blurted that he had to use her facilities.
Pardon me while I upchuck, Diary. Oh, that’s right. I can’t because I’m dead. This debacle is all so upsetting, and frankly—crass. Proper things should be done in a proper manner. What’s to become of us? It’s simply too much. I can practically hear my former stomach gurgling from the audacity of this whole thing. I wish I could take a Pepsid or Pepto or a little Gas-X. Sigh.
Sincerely,
Dr. Derrick Fuller, Ph.D.
Chapter 18
The Hit List
ANNIE
Dear Diary,
After questioning Mack, repeatedly, regarding who might have wanted him dead, he finally gave up his ridiculous Saint Mack act and divulged his top hit list. I’m including their names here:
#1. Annie Rose Graceland. No. NO! Do I even own a pencil let alone an eraser? Nothing to see here, no one to look at—move along.
Devin Dylan of Marina Del Rey, California Cadillac Dealership. Dev was Mack’s #2 pick for his killer. He was out with Mack the night he was run over.
Oh yes—we surmised Mack was murdered during a hit and run in a very large parking lot in Culver City shared by Repeat the Beat Gentleman’s Club, a 99 Cent store, a Korean fast-food joint, a coffeehouse, and an office supply place. I caught bits and pieces of it on the news and Raphael confirmed it when he called to say we couldn’t meet up for a couple of days. He was swamped investigating the hit and run of that used car salesman from Las Vegas.
“Tell him I was a salesman for Previously Owned Vehicles,” Mack said as he reclined on my sleeper sofa, watching Law and Order: SVU re-runs while he petted Theodore.
I frowned: they both had turned into complete couch potatoes. This was fine for Mack but not so great for Teddy. My cat was around three-years-old and needed to get his plump, furry behind off my sofa and run around a bit for heart-healthy exercise. He was doing just that, every day, until Mack showed up on the scene and seduced him into his sedentary ways. Now, Theodore just lay in Mack’s arms and/or treaded his dead lap, before he settled in for a snuggle, a long purr, and hours of being petted during back-to-back re-runs.
I found this strange—he never snuggled with me when I watched TV. Theodore liked my dead ex-boyfriend more than he liked me? I was slightly hurt as well as offended. I glared at him. “Guess we’ll be cutting back on the canned tuna for you, mister.”
“Don’t be mean to your cat!” Mack hollered.
“Then, stop turning him into a slug.”
“What’s going on?” Raphael asked.
I turned my attention back to the phone. “Nothing, TV’s on in the background. No worries, Raphael. Take all the time you need. I heard something on the news about that Vegas victim dude. He was probably offed by a jealous rival. Do check in when you’ve got a break! Miss you, terribly. Mwah!” I threw him a kiss before I hung up.
Mack beat out Dev for the WEPOC #2 salesmen award. Motive? Jealousy. Ambition.
Mack didn’t think his former wife, Bailey, was a suspect as, according to him, she really enjoyed her alimony and living the fancy-life in their tri-level tract house in a suburb of Madison, Wisconsin that she ‘scored’ as part of their divorce settlement.
I pointed out to him, that after seventeen years of being married to Mack, Bailey probably deserved that house as well as a medal.
His eyes misted over and he said Bailey definitely had the chest to pin it on.
I pinched his arm.
He jumped. “Ow! Why are you so mean?” He glowered at me.
“Because you’re dead, and my mom’s coming to town. I don’t have time for tickling, fun and games, or reminiscing. We’ve got work to do. And we don’t have a lot of time to do it.”
He sighed, rubbed his arm, and shared that he did suspect his former father-in-law, Bob Bubeck, had sharpened a few axes to grind with him.
Bob arrived in town, spur-of-the moment, for the WEPOC convention—which Mac hadn’t planned on. They had a few uncomfortable encounters: the first in a men’s room when they did their ‘business’ at adjacent urinals. According to Mack, the conversation was a little hostile. I called it ‘catty’.
“Huh.” Bob glanced over and down at Mack. “Yes, I can see yet another reason why my darling daughter divorced you.”
“Right. And I can see why you haven’t had an unpaid date since your third wife skipped out on you for the UPS guy,” Mack said.
Their second encounter was at Trendy Gadgets for Bitchin’ Cars booth on the convention’s main floor. “Oh, nice to run into you again, Mack,” Bob said. “You’re in the top-of-the-line big equipment store. I suspect you’re looking for the small equipment budget booth. That’s in the basement next to the exit door.”
“Thanks, Bob,” Mack said. “I saw you hanging around there earlier passing out your cards. So sorry someone called the Security Guards who kicked you out for being a vagrant.”
“I’ll have your ass, Mack,” Bob said.
“Not on my watch, Bob. You’ll have to go back to the special spas and pay a little more for that extracurricular activity.”
And then there was the actual awards dinner. According to Mack, the ballroom was packed with a couple hundred folks: used car salesmen from the western states and adjoining states, as well as their dates, wives, mothers, and fathers. The men wore fancy suits, and the women were attired in cocktail dresses clutching knock-off designer handbags. Mack didn’t have a date. He’d made a last ditch effort to contact his distant relative, but her number was now disconnected.
Bob Bubeck not only booed when Mack’s name was announced as WEPOC’s #2 Top Salesman of the Year, but stood up, swayed back and forth a bit, and slurred loudly that WEPOC judges needed to recount the vote.
The Masters of Ceremonies told him to shut up and awarded Mack his trophy on the elevated center stage to a sweeping round of applause. Mack thrust his award high in the air and declared, “Mack ‘The Man’ McManus is Number Two in WEPOC’S house!”
Mack’s fourth I mean third suspect was a middle-aged woman, Tiffany Tominski. She’d stalked Mack for fifteen years because she claimed he had sold her a lemon almost two decades ago, back in Madison, Wisconsin.
Tiffany was a low-level trust fund baby who, when she turned forty, moved from Wisconsin to Beverly Hills, California. She purchased several cockroach-infested apartment buildings, slapped a coat of paint on the inside and out, charged top dollar for the units, and then invested almost zippo into their upkeep. According to Mack her renters hated her.
I asked Mack to think of more people who wanted him dead.
But, he shook his head and said, “No. I gave you a couple of hot, first-string leads. Work with them before you flesh out your second string. Take some time to map out a game pla
n on who goes wide, who travels down the field that you can long bomb to, and who can cover your back and keep you from getting sacked. I did that when I quarterbacked for the U of W Whitewater football team. The strategy works for selling previously owned vehicles, as well.”
“Hmm.” I nodded. “Good plan. We bring the A game to our A suspects before we bring the B game to our B suspects.”
“You nailed it, little lady.” He dodged toward me for the tickle, but I jumped back and evaded him.
“I’m done with the tickling thing, Mack.”
“But—”
“No buts,” I said. “I’m done. No más. Stop it. Now.”
My #SendMacktotheLight team disappeared just as quickly as it was formed. Julia went back to working and dating. Grady returned to his Neener-Neener writing. Derrick resumed wherever he puttered about all day and whomever he haunted all night. So right now—for the most part—it was simply Mack and I.
Familiar story? Yup. Dear Diary, if you wanted something done—do it yourself. I do believe I am the only person who still believed in this utterly old-fashioned piece of advice.
I went to work the next day, accompanied by Mack, of course. I grabbed a few semi-private minutes with Mort Feinberg, and informed him that my mom was, spur-of-the-moment, coming to town for the Thanksgiving holiday, and that she couldn’t wait to meet him! I desperately needed and pleaded for a few flexible hours—only for a week or so—to prepare for her visit.
“Family-Shmamily,” Mort said. “Take the hours you need, kid. Just let Pinky Stein know ahead of time, so we have all the stations covered for the holiday. Yes? Oy gevalt. Such a busy week.”
“Will do. Who’s Pinky Stein?” I asked.
“My friend, Steven Stein’s daughter. She’s going through a divorce, and she needed a part-time job. So I hired her during the holidays as a Coordinator.”
“You, Mort Feinberg, are a Saint to Women who-are-getting-divorced,” I said. “If I were Catholic, I’d nominate you. But I’m not, so I can’t.”
He waved his hand dismissively at me. “Pinky’s a bit high-strung. But Steven and I go back five decades. I’m happy to help him out.”
“You are a gentleman, Mort,” I said, “I adore you.” We high-fived. “I’ll check in with Pinky and make sure our schedules mesh.”
I returned to the front kitchen as Mack slouched on a chair in the corner, waiting for me to break free from my job. “Mack needs you to get moving and track down my killer,” he shouted.
“Hello!” I pointed to the fifty delivery bags on the counters next to me that deli workers were filling with food containers. “Busy here right now. Your time will come.”
When a squat, middle-aged woman with pink hair and black, cat-eye glasses poked my arm. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m organizing the various take-out and to-go orders,” I said.
“That’s funny. Because to me it looks like you’re babbling gibberish into the air.”
I frowned. “Well, you would be wrong, because I was talking on my headset to a driver who’d just called in asking about the delivery to Probable Pictures Production Company.”
“Funny. You’re not wearing a headset.”
“Of course I am.”
“Where is it?” She squinted at me.
“In my earlobe.”
“That looks like a half carat CZ stud earring from Coco’s Boutique in the Mall.”
“To most of the population. But to those of us who keep up with trendy, high tech accessories, it’s the latest in fashion gear. I’m surprised you don’t know about it. You look pretty fashionable yourself.”
“Thank you.” She sniffed. “By the way, Probable Pictures Production Company doesn’t order from Feinberg’s anymore. They jumped ship after their new president took over. She’s vegan. They order from Yummy Greens—the organic place down the block.”
“Yeah, I meant Practically Perfect Productions. I get all the P’s mixed up.” I shuffled some bags around and tried to ignore the crabby-looking woman with the plethora of pink corkscrew curls sprouting from her head.
“Here’s a P for you to remember,” she said. “I’m Pinky Stein and I’m your new boss.”
“Aha, Ms. Stein! So nice to meet you,” I said. “Mr. Feinberg told me about your dilemma. I’m very sorry, and might I say from one woman to another—”
“We don’t need the ‘from one woman to another talk.’” She air quoted with her fingers that sported sparkly pink acrylic nails. “We’re not sharing marital war stories over cocktails after work; we won’t be watching Beaches together, or humming its theme song, “Wind Beneath My Wings”; and we will never become BFFs. You’re not answering to Mr. Feinberg, anymore. You’re answering to me. And I’m not as nice as Mr. Feinberg. I run a tight ship. Things get done promptly around here, or you’ll quickly find yourself on the other side of that door.” She pointed down the hallway.
“You’re going to make me go to the bathroom?” I asked.
She frowned, swiveled and gestured at the front door. “That door. You know what I mean. Chop-chop. Do not let me catch you wasting valuable time again.” She turned and stomped off.
“Uh-oh,” Mack said. “I didn’t think it was possible, but she’s meaner than you. Hurry up!”
I had a crappy night’s sleep. I tossed and turned and dreamt of bill collectors chasing me, and ghosts lumbering after me like a fleet of Frankensteins. I shivered, and I grew so cold and clammy in my nightmare that my fingers turned blue, then black, and then snapped off. I told my dream tormenters to give a girl a break—that I would do my best to solve their murders and pay my Visa bill on time.
I woke up in a sweat, my heart pounding. I tried to go back to sleep. But, I couldn’t help staring at Mack slumped on the opposite corner of my sofa bed, petting Teddy, watching another Law & Order marathon. I was spent, simply exhausted.
That’s when I realized I needed Julia. She had talents I’d never in a thousand years learn, let alone accomplish. I picked up my phone and hit one number.
Lucky for me, she answered.
“I’m in the middle of filing a motion to release Mr. Juarez on a zero money bond,” she said.
“So, Mr. Juarez is not guilty?” I asked.
“No,” Julia said. “It appears to me that Mr. Juarez is amazingly guilty. But sometimes a girl has to do what a girl has to do.”
And that, Dear Diary, is my Julia. She goes the extra mile.
Xo,
Annie
Official Bette Midler Wind Beneath my Wings Music Video
Chapter 19
Be a Better Flirt
JULIA
Dear Diary,
Yet again, I have been talked into deploying my sexy Southern accent, my dangerous curves, and seductive ways to help Annie get something done.
She thinks—(I know)—that I am a better flirt than her. I’ve told her, repeatedly, to simply take a Learning Annex class about this because flirting is a skill that she can use daily. But I’m helping her out—like I always do—because she’s stressing about Mack squatting in her apartment, and the fact that her mom, Nancy, is packing her floral tapestry suitcase set for her upcoming Thanksgiving visit.
I donned my sturdiest push-up bra, squeezed into my sexy, red skirt suit, applied matching lipstick, and three coats of mascara. I drove twenty minutes to rendezvous with Annie outside her apartment, and honked the horn three times as I parked my cute Ford Focus sedan curbside.
She walked toward me looking like a zombie: bleary-eyed, dressed in yoga clothes, a T-shirt, and a hoodie. Her hair was gathered in a ginormous bun on top of her head.
“Hey chickie doo-dah,” I said. “You hiding a bomb in that bun, or are you just happy to see me?” I stepped out of my car and smoothed my skirt down to mid-thigh level, where it was supposed to land.
“You’re driving, right?” Annie tried to open the passenger door, but I’d already locked it with the remote.
“No,” I said. “You a
re. You’re the one ‘shopping’ for a new car.”
“Devin Dylan is never going to believe that I’m moving from a POS twelve-year-old vehicle into a Cadillac. You drive a nice car. He might think you’re a hot lawyer who’s moving up in the world and simply wants a fancier, more status-symbol kind of auto.” She stopped in her tracks, squinted up and to her right. “Wait a minute. What? Devin likes a challenge? So you’re saying I should drive?”
A chill enveloped me as I realized Mack was coming along for the ride. I unlocked my car with the remote and it beeped.
“No worries, Julia. You were right,” Annie said. “We’re taking my car, after all.” She moved toward her dilapidated sedan parked across the street.
I stood on the grassy curbside, opened the front door, reached inside and grabbed a pashmina. Annie had already started the engine as I walked toward her—when something squished under the bottom of my pump. “Ick, I think I might have stepped in dog poo.”
“Wipe your feet on the grass before you get in my car,” Annie said. “Better yet, I’ve got sanitary wipes in the glove compartment. Take off that shoe and clean it on the way to the car dealership.”
“Seriously?” I balanced precariously on one foot with my poo-encrusted foot extended in front of me.
“Would you want me stepping in your car with dog poo on my shoes?” She asked. “By the way, Mack says if you hold your leg up a little higher he’ll catch a better view of your red, lacy undies.”
I frowned. “They are not red,” I lied.
“Mack said he’s dead—not colorblind.”
I huffed, yanked off my pump, and hopped toward the passenger door.
“I’m not telling her that. Oh, really,” Annie said, “You want me to? Fine.” She sighed and watched me maneuver inside the car. “Mack said that he’d love for you to sit on his lap.”
The Annie Graceland Cupcakes Cozy Mystery Box Set #2: Books 5 - 7 Page 7