The Annie Graceland Cupcakes Cozy Mystery Box Set #2: Books 5 - 7

by Pamela DuMond

“A little more information, please?” Annie asked.

  “Coin laundry’s in the building,” Tiffany said. “Two washers. Two driers. Lock on the door.”

  “Very good,” Annie said. “Grady loves to do laundry.”

  “I do?” he asked.

  “Distract her,” Annie mouthed.

  “Who doesn’t love clean clothes!” He nervously scratched his temple. “So… Ms. Tominski—I detect a hint of a Midwestern accent. I’m originally from Iowa. Where do you hail from?”

  “Midwesterners tend to be salt of the earth kind of folks. The woman who used to live here was originally from Wisconsin,” she said. “I am too.”

  “Wow!” Grady said. “What a coincidence! So is Annie.”

  Tiffany’s phone buzzed and she pulled it from her purse, squinted at it, and texted. “Next couple is here to see the place. I told them to come on up. I’m sure you don’t mind—you were a bit late for your appointment, after all.”

  “We had trouble parking,” Grady said.

  “You could have just parked behind the garages in the back like I do,” Tiffany said.

  Annie moved into the kitchen, opening cabinets and pantries as she peered inside.

  “But I wouldn’t want to block your tenants,” Grady said.

  “This is a low-maintenance building,” she said. “Someone has a problem with someone else, they just knock on their door and talk to them about it.”

  “That sounds super friendly,” Grady said. “Just like the Midwest.”

  Annie closed her eyes and sniffed the air like a bloodhound.

  “Mack smells it too!” I said. “It’s my signature fragrance, but it’s not coming from me.”

  A multi-pierced young couple walked inside the apartment. “Number five?” The pierced guy asked.

  Tiffany walked toward them with a big smile on her face. “Why yes,” she said. “You must be Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Let me show you around the place. It’s spacious. Has tons of cabinets and closet space.”

  “The only deal-breaker for me is the street parking,” Mrs. Smith said. “I noticed you had several garages in the back, as well as a few designated parking pads.”

  “Good eye,” Tiffany said. “I can’t advertise the parking spot yet. But, if all goes according to plan, I should have one single garage available sometime soon. Of course, that will be an extra hundred dollars a month.”

  Annie stared at the fridge, took out her phone and took a couple of pictures. Then furtively pulled a few kitchen magnets off the Kenmore and slid them into her purse.

  “What?” Grady mouthed.

  “What?” I asked.

  Annie made her way into the living room. “Lovely space.” She shook Tiffany’s hand. “We’ll be getting back to you, shortly. Thank you for your time.”

  “You too. Don’t forget—this place will go in seconds.” She snapped her fingers.

  “I know,” Annie said. “The ocean view units always do. Say—did you hear about that guy from Wisconsin who was in town for the used car convention and got murdered just a few miles from here?”

  Tiffany’s breath caught and her cheeks popped bright red like she’d overdone it on the dime store blush. “No. He probably brought a criminal element with him. I don’t trust those wheeler-dealer salesmen types. One burned me a long time ago and I steer clear of them. Besides, I only buy new cars now. I love the super long warranties.”

  “Right.” I sniffed. “And all the miles on all the Previously Owned Vehicles I sold were gently driven.” I held my head high, like the #2 WEPOC prince that I was, and strode out of the apartment.

  I jogged down the stairs, Grady and Annie on my heels, as we made our way back to his car. The strange thing, Dear Diary, is that, except for the “wheeler-dealer” comment, Tiffany didn’t seem all that mean anymore. She appeared to be your average, middle-aged chick that was trying to make an honest living.

  “Maybe Mack’s been wrong about Tiffany all these years?” I asked. “Perhaps I painted her as a heartless shrew, when she’s simply an overly-anxious, cost-cutting woman who means well?”

  “Do you want to know what that new car smell is?” Annie asked.

  “Dying,” Grady said.

  “Please don’t say those words,” Annie said.

  “Taking them back,” Grady said.

  “Been there, done that,” I said. “Yes, please.”

  She reached in her purse, pulled out a kitchen magnet, and held it in front of us. “Take a sniff and a look at this,” she said. “And tell me what you think.”

  Both Grady and I sniffed and squinted, but he beat me to the punch. “I think it says, “Made in Japan,” he said. “Is that our clue? Did someone with a Japanese made car run over Mack? Oh, God, there are so many Prius drivers in L.A.’s Westside. How are we going to narrow this down? We are so doomed.”

  “Oops, sorry.” Annie flipped the magnet over, and waved it—long and slow in front of us.

  “Holy crap,” Grady said. “Much better. That is the mother of all refrigerator magnet clues.”

  “Yup,” Annie said. “Couldn’t have found it without Mack’s help.”

  “Stop waving it around,” I clutched my forehead and blinked. “Mack’s still a little dizzy and I wouldn’t want to upchuck all over you.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” Annie said. “But now that you’re dead that’s not going to happen.” She stopped swirling it and held it still right in front of my eyeballs.

  I zeroed in on it, clutched my chest in shock, and I reeled.

  Because the words on the magnet read, “WEPOC: The #1 Site for Previously Owned Vehicles.”

  Yowsa, Diary!

  Must go spit-polish what’s left of my brain and remember how I know that place.

  Mack

  Chapter 24

  A Mom’s Gotta Do

  NANCY

  Dear Diary,

  I could barely contain my excitement as I packed my bags to visit my only daughter, Annie Graceland-ixnay-the-Piccolino, in Lost Angeles, California.

  I printed out a list from the TSA on things I shouldn’t pack in my suitcase or carryon bags. My friend, Dot Fettleman, said I should wear comfy shoes that I can slip on and off in order to go through airport security, but definitely wear socks so my feet don’t freeze on the eight-hour flight with one stop over from Milwaukee to LAX.

  I’ve been asking Annie to come back home and visit me for Thanksgiving ever since she married—that man. But she hasn’t. Now she’s divorcing him and she’s broke, because he killed her business and as far as I’m concerned, almost killed her as well. So I am making the grand schlep out to L.A. to visit Annie and shore up her sanity as well as mine.

  Not to bore you, and please, give a mother a tiny break as I share a pinch about that man.

  I met Mike Piccolino for the first time years ago when he came to our family’s house for Thanksgiving. There was something off about him. He was too good to be true. He was gracious. He bowed, smiled, and presented me with a lovely, enormous bouquet of exotic flowers. He insisted on calling me Mrs. Graceland.

  I said, “That’s polite of you, Mike, but I prefer that you call me, Nancy.”

  “How about I call you Mom?” he asked.

  No. It was far too soon for that. Mike never understood the concept of boundaries. He lived to impress. He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t stop it with me. He couldn’t stop it when they moved to L.A. to pursue his acting. He couldn’t stop it when he had extra-marital affairs in the hopes of advancing his less-than-marginal career.

  A couple of months into their relationship, I had a heart to heart with Annie, and I told her how I really felt about Mike. But she wouldn’t listen.

  She stomped around my kitchen after a family meal, helping me wash the dishes and slamming a few pots and pans in the pantry next to my stove. “Mike’s wonderful, Mom,” Annie said. “He’s bright, funny, clever, and a decent kisser. And, I’m sick and tired of dating guys who say they’re going to call me and
then I wait and I wait. And, eventually I wonder if a guy saying ‘I’m going to call you,’ is secret guy code for ‘I’m going to call you—maybe. I’m going to call you—never. Or, I’m going to call you… sometime before I die. Like the guy will be calling when I’m eighty-two-years-old, hard of hearing, and have forgotten what my lady parts are even there for.”

  “Trust me, you’ll never forget what your lady parts are there for,” I said.

  “I’m all grown up, Mom. I’m not a little girl. I’m not even a stupid twenty-year-old, and I’m finally dating a gentleman. Why can’t you just be happy for me?”

  Because I’m a mother, and mothers have a sixth sense, which after a couple of cocktails, amongst our peers, we call a ‘bullshit-o-meter’. My sixth sense was on fire, screaming that this Mike Piccolino guy was a fraud, a fake, a phony.

  So you tell me? What’s a mother to do?

  Nag your child incessantly that getting married is a very important decision? Yes. Tell your daughter the night before her wedding that her spouse-to-be is not as great as she thinks he is? Check. Celebrate her wedding with genuine tears after she ignores you and marries the schlub anyhow because she’s so happy? Yes, again.

  A couple of years later you listen to her sob two thousand miles away from you on the phone when it turns out you’re right—even though you wished like hell you were wrong. And now you pack your sensible luggage to get on a plane, even though flying scares you half to death, and travel to a place you hate in order spend a holiday with your only daughter? You better believe it.

  She’s dating a new guy now. She really likes him. I’m going to check him out. And I’ll kill him if he’s anything like Mike.

  You’d do the same for your daughter, Diary. I just know it.

  Sincerely,

  Nancy Jean Graceland

  Apple Cake

  by Cheryl Moore

  (Voted by Cheryl’s husband as the best cake ever!!)

  Instructions:

  Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

  Peel and thinly slice approximately five granny smith apples to equal four cups. Spread apples in buttered 13x9x2 inch pan or evenly distribute in 24 cupcake liners for cupcakes.

  Beat three eggs with a mixer until thick. In a separate bowl combine two cups of sugar with one cup of vegetable oil. Pour beaten eggs into this and mix with mixer on medium speed.

  Stir together two cups of flour, three teaspoons of cinnamon, one teaspoon baking soda, and one-half teaspoon of salt; add to egg mixture, add 1 teaspoon vanilla extract (pure not imitation) and beat to mix. Stir in one cup chopped walnuts.

  Pour batter over apples spreading to cover. Don't be alarmed that the batter is kind of thick and doesn't actually ‘easily’ pour over apples use a rubber spatula to distribute batter or your freshly-washed/clean fingers (no one will know.)

  Bake the sheet cake for one hour.

  Bake the cupcakes for 20 - 25 minutes.

  Remove from oven and cool.

  This cake is going to look totally funky, hills and dales but this is normal. This cake is moist and dense except for the top that bakes into a crispy crust, great textures going on here.

  Once cool, frost with cream cheese frosting, oh yes yummy cream cheese frosting, this definitely deserves "the cherry on top of the cake" reference.

  Soften one 8 ounce package of cream cheese and beat till fluffy. Continue beating and slowly beat in 1/3 cup melted butter, then add 2 2/3 cups powdered sugar and 1 teaspoon lemon juice. Spread over cooled cake or cupcakes. YUM!!!!!

  Chapter 25

  Five-Year-Olds

  JULIA

  Dear Diary,

  Annie, Grady, and I convened at the wide, pretty beach in the Marina. We left the concrete sidewalk next to the harbor waters, took off our shoes, stumbled through the soft drifts, and now trod down the long strip of hard, cold sand right where America’s west coast met the ocean waters.

  “I’m kind of nervous that I might have messed with a potential crime scene by stealing the refrigerator magnets from Tiffany’s apartment,” Annie said.

  “It’s not a crime scene yet,” I said. “We’ll deal with your indiscretion if it comes to that.” It was an incredibly windy, November day, and the sand literally flew in little spirals through the air. “Maybe we should take this meeting to a restaurant, or a café?” I stopped and slipped on my sunglasses.

  “No. I don’t want anyone overhearing us. Just think of this sandblasting in front of the ocean as a win-win.” Annie scrounged in her purse and slid her Ray-ban Aviator sunglasses onto her face. “We’re getting a free exfoliating facial peel at the same time we inhale fresh ocean air with its negative ions. If we went to a pricey spa they’d charge us five hundred bucks for the two ‘treatments.’”

  “Negative ions are scientifically proven to be healthy and calming. It’s soothing and beautifying all at the same time.” Grady slipped on his geeky writer sunglasses.

  Annie swiveled and glared at a sand castle behind her. “You’re fine, Mack! Stop worrying! You don’t need sunglasses—you’re dead. Jeez, at least Derrick understands this stuff…” she frowned. “Yes, I know you know a lot about everything, Derrick. Maybe it’s time for you to step up to the plate and mentor Mack, because he doesn’t know how to be dead the way you do. You were the self-help author, after all. Could you find it in your beatless heart to help out the new guy?”

  “So both your dead guys are here?” I asked.

  “They’re not ‘my dead guys!’” Annie huffed.

  “Seriously, if we think in the communal spirit,” Grady rubbed his chin, “they’re really… all our dead guys. All of us have benefited from their inspiration, their journeys—”

  “Yeah, John Lennon,” Annie said. “I hear ya, give peace a chance.”

  “This isn’t about peace,” Grady said.

  “Then can we get back to what it’s supposed to be about?” Annie asked. “We’re meeting here to discuss our latest clue and where in the hell do we go from here? Tick-tock, tick-tock. It’s thirty-six hours until Nancy touches down on California soil. I haven’t even cleaned my car yet. I’m not ready for the Mom Death Star to arrive and I’m starting to freak out a little bit.”

  “A little bit?” Grady asked. “You’ve been wound tighter than a married politician after the press discovers he wasn’t hiking the Appalachian Trail. Besides, how can you clean your car when it’s at the shop?”

  “Crap!” Annie threw her hands up in the air. “What if I don’t get my car back in time? How will I pick up Mom at the airport?”

  “I’m normally not the one who says this kind of thing—but everyone here needs to calm down.” I glanced at my watch. They didn’t know this because contrary to popular opinion, I didn’t share everything with my friends, but in a couple of hours I’d be having my first date with Nikolai Gregosky at an indoor ice-skating rink in Culver City. “Annie, you’re obviously our point person solving Mack’s murder. What do you think about our latest clue?”

  “Well the fact that the WEPOC refrigerator magnet was at the apartment Tiffany was renting can’t be random,” she said. “Besides, Mack felt strongly that he’d been in that space before.”

  “So did I,” Grady said. “Because the vast majority of sixty-year-old L.A. apartments look exactly alike.”

  “But in his defense, Mack can’t put two and two together yet. He feels a little foggy,” Annie said.

  “Aha. I see,” I said. “Tell me more.”

  “Do you think this clue puts Tiffany in the lead to be Mack’s killer?” Annie asked.

  “Hmm,” I said. “Besides hating Mack from a very long time ago, what’s her motive?”

  “I don’t really know.” Annie frowned at a glob of seaweed punctuated with a few tiny, rotting fish that was tossed up on the sand a few yards in front of them. “Ew! Stop! Just because you’re dead, Mack, does not mean you can poke around in that stuff. No. Do not throw it at Derrick! I don’t care if he made fun of your shirt. Oh, for God’s sake
s, this is like Dead Guy Daycare. You are not five-year-olds, and I am not your mother!”

  “Great material! Great material!” Grady said to no one in general. “Hey, maybe—Tiffany knows Mack’s killer?”

  “Ah-hah,” I said. “Excellent point. I think you should just toss ideas back and forth and I’ll weigh in when you hit gold.”

  “You’re the best friend, ever,” Annie said, turned, and hugged me.

  Grady held out his arms in front of the two of us. “I agree. Group hug?”

  “Group hug!” I said, we did, and then pulled apart. “Okay, I think we’ve gone far enough down the beach. Let’s walk back, and get the other side of our faces sandblasted. But keep these ideas coming. I’m putting on my official lawyer hat now and will be honing in on any terrific insights that you two come up with.”

  The surf splashed up and splattered against us. Annie shook her finger at the shallow end of ocean water. “There will be no splashing each other! Do you hear me? Stop it, boys!”

  And that’s when I finally tuned them all out. Stuck imaginary fingers in my ears and concentrated on myself instead of squabbling over dead guys, solving murders, and discussing half-baked clues.

  Gosh, Diary. This was, after all, my first date with Nikolai. I had agreed to go ice-skating with him even though I hadn’t skated since I was sixteen-years-old. And yes, I was still incredibly interested in/attracted to/dying to rip the clothes off Devin Dylan.

  But this time? I wasn’t rushing the game. I was playing it cool. I’d called Devin once and left him my phone number. Now it was up to him. Yes, he was following through. I didn’t immediately return his phone calls, e-mails, or texts. I was going to Make. Him. Wait.

  In the meantime I’d cool my heels with Nikolai. According to his FitnessBuffdotcom dating profile, he was a handsome Russian ex-hockey player. There were worse ways to chill out.