Suddenly, something in me snapped. I didn’t care anymore what people thought of me. I didn’t care if I was the ‘disheveled lady’, or the woman in the ratty pajamas. I didn’t even care if someone called me the nastiest thing possible you could say to a single woman over thirty–five—“Cat Lady.”
“Theodore!” I yelled. “Theodore, where are you?”
Anthony squeezed his powdered cheeks in frustration. “Why will no one help me? What do I have to do to get someone around here to actually listen to me? I AM Anthony Spiggottini, an important member of this community. I am on the Board of the Venice Historical Society, and the right hand man to John Fartier, the Landlord of Venice. There will be hell to pay when he learns that no one is helping me.”
The truck approached Rose Avenue and the driver stomped on the gas to make the light. I distinctly heard
“Meow-rl. Row-rl. Meow-rl!”
I glanced up and saw Teddy high up in the air peering out of the trunk of Anthony’s car. His blue eyes were dilated, his gorgeous coat covered in dirt, and I couldn’t tell if he looked thrilled, hungry, or irritated. Okay, maybe a combination. “Theodore!”
“Oh, my God,” Anthony said. “Some Neanderthal is stealing my car.”
I raced after the truck as Anthony followed on my heels.
A car screeched in front of us, and stopped us in our tracks. Well, at least it stopped me.
Anthony ran right through the cute Ford Focus. He stopped, swiveled, and looked utterly confused. “Mr. Fartier is not going to be pleased!” He hiccupped, glanced down at the blood on his chest, and turned even whiter. “Oh my God, I’ve been struck!” He fainted cold onto the ground.
The car looked familiar, the door flew open, and Julia gestured to me from the driver’s seat. “Hurry up,” she said. “I don’t have all day.”
I stared at Anthony, but realized he was already dead, and that he’d be up and about in no time. I hopped inside and slammed the door. “Follow that truck,” I said. “There’s a cat in the caboose.”
Chapter 14
Think Paw-sitively
Theodore (The Cat)
I’d seen those commercials on TV where people rode around outdoors in vehicles called “convertibles.” Their meager hair blew in the breeze; they smiled at each other, laughed, and threw their hands up in the air like they’d accomplished something spectacular. All those topless vehicle riders looked so very happy, like they were living a fancy cherry pie dream.
I, on the other hand, was not happy.
I towered above the earth, the ground thousands of yards below me, as the wind whipped through my luxurious mane.
Mary materialized next to me. “Ah, the sweet smell of freedom.” She gazed at the landscape as it passed us by. “It’s intoxicating, yes?”
My eyes crossed and I projectile hurled.
“That’s disgusting!” A guy in a convertible shook his fist at me with one hand and wiped cat goo off his forehead with his other. “You ruined my new suit, you stupid feline. I oughta…”
I gazed at him stony-faced, which was my kind’s way for communicating an apology, and then lowered my head to my new friend. “I apologize, Mary,” I said. “It seems I suffer from motion sickness.”
“It happens to the best of us,” she said and we jolted as the truck screeched to a halt. “I rode in a truck like this once before, and it went to a very dark place. I say we ditch this dive, now. Follow my lead.” She crouched on the rim of the trunk, leapt to the hood of the car below, sauntered across the windshield, and leaped down onto the ground.
“I can’t do that!” I said. “You’ve got magical powers. If I did that I’d splatter on top of that cat hater’s soggy head.”
She raced to the curb and looked up at me. “You have to start thinking more paw-sitively, Theodore. Your negative attitude will get you nowhere. Hurry up.”
The truck lurched forward and I stumbled. The ground loomed far below, and my teeth chattered. I crawled out with my front legs extended and slid down to the bumper with my back feet still anchored in the trunk. I found myself in a precarious position, suspended between heaven and earth.
“Jump, Theodore,” Mary said. “You can do it. Believe in yourself.”
The truck driver picked up speed. It was now or never. I took a deep breath and stared at the guy in the convertible below me. “Bloody Hairy!” I yelled and leapt. I hurtled through the air and landed in the cat hater’s passenger seat.
“Holy crap!” He hit the brake. “It’s raining cats in Venice!”
“Hurry up, Teddy,” Mary yelled. “I don’t trust him. He’s pasty and looks like a vegan.”
I jumped out of the car, landed on the pavement, and dodged a bicyclist before I made it in one breathless piece, to the curb.
“Good job.” Mary jumped into the air, turned, and raced into nearby bushes.
That’s it? All I got for risking life and limb is ‘Good job’?
“I am not following you in there.” I panted. “It appears unsanitary. I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten for days. What are you doing?”
Mary popped out of the foliage. “I could swear I saw a mouse. Do I have stuff on my face?” She pawed at her whiskers.
“What kind of stuff?” I sat down and groomed my own snout hairs.
“You know, stuff. Like, anything that doesn’t belong on there, stuff?”
I squinted at her. “No. You look the same as you did the first time I saw you.”
She quieted down and eyed me. “How so?”
“Cute eyes, fuzzy fur, like a puff of black smoke,” I said.
“Oh.” She blinked. “What kind of smoke?”
“I don’t know. Like the kind that belched out of the tailpipe on that truck we were just on.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I remind you of truck exhaust?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Good to know.” She turned, gave me the cold shoulder, and stalked away.
“What?” I followed her. “What’s wrong with truck exhaust?”
She sat on the sidewalk and glared at me. “If you don’t know what’s wrong with comparing me to truck exhaust, I’m not going to tell you.”
I pawed in the general vicinity of her head, but she made herself even puffier than that wagon’s smoke, and hissed.
“Fine,” I said. “Now you remind me of a big puff of black jet engine smoke on the runway at Santa Monica airport right before takeoff.”
“I’ll show you takeoff.” She bolted away from me down the sidewalk.
“Mary, wait.” I trotted after her. “I fear the starvation is creating havoc with my brain.”
But she didn’t wait. She squeezed through a gap in a dilapidated fence and disappeared from sight.
“I’m on your tail. The outdoors scares me. You look like a mysterious black puff of exotic, midnight smoke that smells like, um, it smells like… cupcakes,” I said. “Don’t leave me!”
Davis Family Cherry Dream Pie
By
Kim McMahan Davis
Ingredients:
Crust
3 cups (1 - 13.5 ounce package) graham cracker crumbs (either Honey Maid or gluten-free graham cracker crumbs such as Kinnikinnick brand)
1-1/2 sticks (6 ounces) butter, melted
1 teaspoon salt
Filling
2 cups (9 ounces) powdered sugar
2 8-ounce packages cream cheese (softened to room temperature)
2 envelopes Dream Whip mix
1 cup cold milk, whole or 2%
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Topping
Two 21-ounce cans Comstock Cherry Pie Filling
Instructions:
Crust
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Lightly coat a 13”x9” casserole dish with cooking spray.
Mix graham cracker crumbs with the salt and melted butter and stir until thoroughly combined. Mixture should resemble wet sand.
Press graham cracker mixture into casserole dish with very clean hands and
form short edges around the side of the dish with the crust.
Bake for 10 minutes then remove and cool completely.
Filling
Pour the 2 envelopes of Dream Whip mix into a medium sized bowl along with milk and vanilla extract.
Using an electric hand mixer, beat for 30 seconds on low. Increase speed to medium high and beat for 3 – 4 minutes until mixture thickens and forms peaks.
Refrigerate until needed.
In a large mixing bowl beat the 2 packages of soft cream cheese on medium, until soft and creamy.
Reduce to low speed and gradually add the 2 cups of powdered sugar. Once incorporated increase speed to medium high and beat until smooth and creamy, about 2 minutes.
Remove Dream Whip from the refrigerator and gently fold into cream cheese mixture.
Spread cream cheese and Dream Whip mixture over the cooled crust, spreading to the edges of the dish.
Topping
Spread the 2 cans of cherry pie filling over the cream cheese mixture.
Refrigerate for at least 3 hours before serving. Store leftovers in the refrigerator for up to 3 days.
Recipe can be halved and made in an 8”x8” baking dish.
Chapter 15
Café Thankful
Annie
“The menu clearly states that you serve breakfast until noon.” I squinted up at the hipster waiter with the pathetic goatee. “I do believe my copy is missing the page that describes your omelets.”
“Café Thankful is one hundred percent vegan. We don’t serve anything that comes from an animal,” he said, “including omelets.”
“My cat disappeared on the back of a truck, a guy was murdered in front of my apartment complex, I haven’t slept, and I’m dying for some protein. If I were a betting girl, I’d wager that there are eggs somewhere on these premises. I’d really, really love an omelet.”
“If it’s protein you’re looking for, why don’t you try the kale salad with chickpeas and spicy tempeh bits?” Grady asked as he played with his cutlery. He and Julia sat across from me at the four-top table made from recycled plastic bottles. I knew this because a sign sitting next to the pink Himalayan salt displayed this message.
I shuddered. “Salad is not breakfast food,” I said. “Eggs are breakfast food.”
“What is it about vegan you don’t understand?” The waiter asked, his chin hair quivering.
My Aunt Susan used to blink when she heard something she didn’t much care for. I liked to think I learned from the best. “I’d like the three egg omelet with avocado, mushrooms, tomatoes and onions, please,” I said loudly and blinked, pretending that he had a hearing problem.
“Oh, crap.” Grady muttered. “She’s pulling an ‘Aunt Susan.’”
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me,” Hipster said. “We. Do. Not. Serve. Omeletes.”
“I don’t understand why you ‘proclaim’ to serve breakfast,” I stabbed my finger on the menu, “and yet I cannot order eggs.”
The ghost of Derrick Fuller materialized in the chair next to me wearing only his silver thong and cleared his throat. “Good luck winning this one over. I suggest you order the twenty grain oatmeal and call it a day.”
“The twenty grain oatmeal will give me diverticulitis for a week,” I said.
“Everyone else at your table has already ordered, Miss,” Hipster said. “Why don’t you get the tofu scramble?”
“Why don’t I put a fork in my eye?” I slapped the menu on the table. “Bring me coffee, please. Your darkest brew.”
The waiter clucked under his breath, which only made me want eggs even more, and strode away.
“You are so cantankerous,” Julia said and curled up her nose. “And, you need to shower.”
“I will shower when you sit in my living room and mind Derrick and Anthony. I don’t want either of them peeking at me.”
“I can’t believe someone killed Anthony Spiggottini,” Grady said.
“I never wished the guy dead, but have you forgotten how foul he was when he was living?” I asked.
Julia sawed into a bagel and slathered on the fake cream cheese. “I can believe it.” She took a huge bite. “The man was odious.”
“Speaking of the devil,” Derrick said. “Here he comes.”
Anthony walked through Café Thankful still dressed as Dracula. He yapped on his non-existent phone as he bumped into diners, and restaurant employees. They flinched, glanced around, but lucky for them saw nothing. Even so, Anthony never once apologized.
“I can’t deal with him right now.” I held the menu in front of my face.
“What are you doing?” Grady asked.
“She’s trying to hide from someone.” Julia glanced around. “An old boyfriend? Your almost ex-husband?”
“Perhaps I should have another look at that twenty-one grain oatmeal,” I said.
“Wait a minute!” Grady said. “You’re hiding from the ghost of Anthony Spiggottini, aren’t you?”
“The bean sprout pancakes look delectable,” I said.
“Liar,” Grady said. “I’d wager that Anthony Spiggottini’s ghost is here in this restaurant right now. Hold on…isn’t that your landlord, John Fartier, in the booth against the wall? The super buff girl with the exotic tattoos is seated next to him.”
I peeked from behind the menu and spotted my landlord, the former bodybuilder, and nodded. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. The aging muscle dude sitting across from the two Asian businessmen,” Grady said. “I know that’s your landlord. He’s practically real estate royalty in Venice.”
“I’ve never seen that man before in my life.”
Anthony spotted John Fartier, came to a screeching halt, ran a hand through his gelled hair, and nervously picked at his fake incisor.
“I’ll handle this. You can thank me later.” Derrick hopped up, and walked the few yards toward him.
“Mr. Fartier.” Anthony practically genuflected to the slumlord that danced on my monthly rent checks before he cashed them. “First, let me say what a fabulous time I had at your Halloween bash last night. Yours was the most authentic rendition of Tarzan I had ever seen. I know you’re wondering why I’m still in my costume. Well, that’s because… because…”
Derrick took Anthony’s arm. “I understand that you feel the need to explain everything to your boss, including why you’re still dressed as a blood sucker. Trust me, the irony is not lost on me. But, it’s not important anymore.”
Anthony eyed Derrick. “You’re just saying that because you’re still dressed in your Halloween costume. What did you go as? Aging European royalty on a beach vacation?”
John Fartier passed a spiral notebook to the two businessmen who sat across from him. “As promised, these are our financial statements. You can clearly see the deal that Fartier and Associates is offering regarding investing in our mixed use-age retail and condominium project will be quite lucrative.”
Anthony clicked his heels together and faced the men. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Anthony Spiggottini, and I am Mr. Fartier’s right hand man. Feel free to direct your additional questions to me.”
But they ignored Anthony and paged through the binder.
“Anthony,” Derrick said. “You’ve reached a point in your life, err, I meant existence, where you no longer have to bow and scrape to your superiors.” He slapped him on the back. “Repeat after me. I will stand up tall. I will be a man.”
“Don’t touch me,” Anthony hissed, and pursed his lips so tight I feared he might swallow them. “Once again, Mr. Fartier, allow me to offer my most sincere apologies regarding…”
But, John Fartier was absorbed in a phone call.
“Anthony,” Derrick said. “Please trust me on this one. You don’t need to—”
John placed his cell on the tabletop and dropped his head into his hands. “Surf’s totally out, man. I don’t know what to think.” He swiped one of his eyes with his fist.
“John?” the tatted woman asked as she reached across the table and patted his hand. “John, what’s wrong? Is there anything I can do?”
“Mr. Fartier,” Anthony said. “Mr. Fartier, can I get you something? Water? Coffee?”
John Fartier stifled a sob that frankly sounded more like a hiccup. “There’s nothing you can do, Hildy,” he said and nodded to the Asian gentlemen. “I am so sorry, Misters Sato and Takahashi, that you had to hear this.”
They blinked and nodded.
“I just received terrible news that, as this café reminds me, thankfully, has nothing to do with our proposed business venture. I just found out—”
Anthony’s hand flew to his mouth. “You found out my car was stolen. I am so sorry, Mr. Fartier. I will track it down and find those reports. You have nothing to worry about. I’m still you’re right hand man. I’ll always be your right hand man.”
“I just found out my right hand man, Anthony Spiggottini is dead.”
“What?” Anthony screeched and his hand flew to his blood-soaked chest.
“Gentlemen, I must go.” John pushed himself to standing.
“Clearly, there’s been a mistake,” Anthony said. “I’m right here. I’m right here in front of you, Mr. Fartier, like I am every single day, on holidays, and even on my mother’s birthday. You just don’t recognize me because I’m still wearing my costume.”
“My assistant, Hildy, will carry on our meeting without me,” John said. “Why don’t we convene later in the day, gentlemen? I apologize for any unpleasantness this might have caused you.”
“‘Caused them?’” Anthony squeaked. “I hate to burden you with this, Mr. Fartier, but I’m the one who feels unpleasant.”
John strode through Anthony, stopped dead in his tracks, held his hand up in the air and stared at it. “Wow. Goosebumps just sprouted on the back of my right hand. I could swear this is symbolic. I miss Anthony already. Wherever you are, Spiggottini? Cowabunga, dude.”
The Annie Graceland Cupcakes Cozy Mystery Box Set #2: Books 5 - 7 Page 22