“Oh, I would love that,” Slice said and patted his belly. “This old man is hungry.”
“Can we do a Jason Bourne flick?” Julia asked. “I adore Matt Damon in those movies.”
Slice’s glance lighted on Julia as if he was seeing her for the first time. “Hello, lovely. Have we met?”
I frowned and slid one finger across my throat. “Yes!”
“But then the first one’s so romantic, and it might make me cry,” Julia said. “Don’t forget, I was the one who cradled Slice’s bloody body after he collapsed on stage. I crooned Irish lullabies to him as he slipped from this life, and passed away into the next.”
“I do love those drunken drinking songs,” Slice said. “The Irish are poetic people and their inebriated tunes can be quite charming.”
“I know.” My stomach churned acid and gurgled unceremoniously as if it were staging a revolt. It dawned on me that no matter how many times I circled around, I’d eventually end up back where I started: with a ghost who didn’t know he was murdered, let alone who had perpetrated the deed.
What to outsiders might resemble a little ‘harmless haunting’ would quickly become stalking and harassing, pestering and badgering. No, I didn’t attract the kind of ghosts that wanted to scare me to death. I attracted the kind that wanted to nag me to death. The spirits of the deceased that hung out in my pocket of the universe always wanted me to figure out who killed them, bring their murderers to justice, and weren’t shy about telling me this, over and over, even when I threatened them with imaginary violence, and other non-enforceable penalties.
I sighed and clutched my head, desperately wishing I had another bag of Stoneybrooke Farms macadamia nut chocolate chip cookies, but feared I’d already consumed my annual limit of mouse bits. “Julia,” I said, “in regards to Slice’s horrible and untimely demise, what happened when you were backstage? Did you see anything out of the ordinary? Was anyone suspicious-looking skulking about?”
“Yes,” she said, “Your usual weirdo musician types.” She picked up a bottle of moisturizer, slapped the bottom, and squeezed lotion onto her palm.
“I wrote an Irish drinking song. It hit all the charts and my career skyrocketed.” Slice cleared his throat and sang. “A Cailín came a hailing from Kilkenny…”
I frowned and my eye twitched. “I need more details. Please?”
“One night in prison and my skin is parched. This lotion is amazing. It has cocoa and shea butter,” she said. “My skin is totally sucking this stuff in.”
Slice strummed his imaginary guitar. “Her Irish winds blew fierce and strong, shining bright like a copper penny…”
I winced and clamped my hands over my ears. “Not about the lotion. I need more deets about your visit with Slice. Did you see anything weird backstage?”
“Of course—it was the United Music Awards!” she said. “I spotted five men in tutus, a man dressed as a snake, and some people wearing fancy suits with fedoras.” She slathered the lotion on her arms and legs and rubbed it in. “Grips, Techs. A diva or two. Oh yeah—there was a chick wrapped in bacon. She looked familiar.”
“That’s the second time I’ve heard about a chick wrapped in bacon. That could totally be a clue,” I said. “Why do you think she chose that as her costume?”
“Because everything goes better with bacon.” She yanked off her robe and tossed it on the bed. Her phone rang and she pulled it off the nightstand and peered at the screen. “I have to take this,” she said and picked up. “Yes, David. Yes. I got home okay. No, you’re not interrupting anything important. Talk to me. How goes the case? Do you think they’ll press charges?”
Slice’s mouth dropped open as he stared at her. “Hello, pretty lasses.”
“Lass,” I said. “Singular.”
“Not from where I stand,” he said and returned to singing, “Cailín came a hailing with all her pretty de-tailings—”
I punched him in the chest, and even though he was deceased, somehow I managed to connect with his spirit body. He crashed back against the bedroom wall that was covered floor to ceiling in framed family photos and embroidered, old-fashioned samplers. Strangely, the ‘Every Day a Happy Day’ needlepoint was the only picture impacted, and now tilted sadly to the right.
“You didn’t like my song?” Slice rubbed his head.
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Was the violence necessary?” he asked. “Can’t we just give peas a chance?”
“Yes. But you mean peace, not ‘peas’.” I straightened the sampler.
“No,” he said, “I mean peas. I’m famished and I’d give just about anything right now for my mum’s honey glazed peas and carrots, and perhaps some mutton. Do you know how to make mutton? It’s not the easiest recipe, you know. You have to cook the onions until they are translucent before you add the meat. Overcook them and they’re soggy. No one complains about soggy onions, but trust me; no one likes them. Then they gossip about you behind your back and say, ‘If he ever asks you over for mutton stew, I’d politely decline.’”
Mutton, sandwiches, vegetables… I thought rock stars were supposed to be craving booze and drugs and sex. “After all you’ve been through, are you certain that you’re still hungry? Technically you don’t need food anymore.”
“Everyone needs food, woman. Besides, I haven’t eaten in God knows how long,” he said. “I was trying to slim down for a show. I lost a few pounds, but then last night I was in one of those green rooms, or blue rooms, or whatever they’re called, and I was just so hungry I wanted to tear my hair out. But could I get a bite to eat at the gig? A little nibble? Maybe one of those music producers or their cloying assistants could just throw me a bone to gnaw on? No. Those places treat animals better than they treat the rock stars. Oh yes, did I tell you? I’m good with animals, you know. They like me. We are kindred spirits. We ride the free range together and sometimes I dance with the wolves.”
“Yes,” I said and stared at him. “I remember when you told me the first time. You were in my home.”
“How did that happen?” Slice asked. “I must have blacked out and magically came to in your kitchen. I remember your cute refrigerator magnets ‘I didn’t text you at midnight. My Vodka did.’ Very clever. That one was my favorite.”
“Thanks. But you didn’t black out,” I said. “Something else happened.”
“That’s a terrific explanation. Do you mind if I borrow that?” he asked. “‘No, my friend. I did not black out. Something else happened.’” He winked at me, like I was in on the joke.
While I didn’t believe that there were any guns involved in this homicide, I decided to bite the proverbial bullet and go for it. I was going to impress upon Slice that he was dead. Gone. Big belly up. His day was done. Unless I wanted to be living with another deluded spirit for the foreseeable future, now was the perfect time to tell him. “Have you considered the possibility that you might be having an out of body experience of a different nature?” I asked. “Like—you died, left your body, and now your spirit is floating between worlds?”
He blinked. “That’s not what happened. I woke up in your home, politely asked you to make me a little sandwich, but you grew hostile, and tried to kick me out. I’m coming to the conclusion that you suffer from repressed rage. I hope you don’t plan on hosting anyone on Air BnB anytime soon. Your Yelp reviews would not be positive.”
I stared at him and realized besides Slices’ being kind-of-dead thing, something else wasn’t quite right. “Julia, I fear we’ve got a bit of a situation.”
“I know.” She placed her phone on the bureau, rustled through her underwear drawer, picked out a lacy pink bra and panty set, and shimmied into it.
“I’ll say we’ve got a situation.” Slice’s eyes widened, and he raced to Julia’s queen sized bed covered with the blue and pink crocheted comforter. He threw himself on top of it and struck a come hither pose.
“Not that kind of situation,” I said.
“What kind of situ
ation are you referring to?” Julia asked.
“Just tell me your side of the story,” I said. “What happened with Slice when you were alone in his room? Did you talk, reconnect?”
“Of course we talked,” she said. “I asked him if he remembered pulling me on stage and kissing me twenty years ago. And then he just looked at me, all nostalgic-like, and his eyes misted over.”
“What did he say?” I asked.
“He said, ‘That was you, lovely?’” Julia said. “And I said, ‘Yes, that was me. I’ll never forget that moment as long as I live. Do you remember it?’”
Slice patted his stomach with one hand and rubbed his head with the other.
“What was his answer?” I asked.
“He said—” Julia’s hand flew to her heart, “‘My mind might be a little addled from all the years of drugs and parties and rock 'n' roll, but I’ll never forget pulling you on stage and kissing you, Uli.”
“He did remember you!” I said.
“How could I forget Uli?” Slice asked.
Julia shook her head. “No, he was reading my name off the lanyard hanging down my cleavage.”
“You didn’t tell him about the hair pulling thing?” I asked.
“No! You put the fear of god into me with your ‘men and their hair’ talk.”
“I bet Slice never forgot you,” I said. “I bet he looked at you and his heart beat loudly in his manly chest as he remembered the past when you were together, especially in that magical, iconic moment in time. Once again, you’re not giving yourself enough credit; underestimating the effect you had on him.”
“You’re sweet and kind, Annie, and you’re looking on the bright side of things,” Julia said. “But I still think that the topless selfie did the trick.”
“Is that really how you scored our tickets to last night’s gig?”
She nodded. “Kind of. Slice’s manager said I needed to contact Paul Vanderveen’s office to get on the list.”
I frowned. “Did you know Vanderveen was Paul the Pervert from our past?”
“Come on! I can’t keep track of all the perverts from our past. That tome would be the size of a phone book if those still existed.”
I nodded. “Did you and Slice have relations of a more personal, you know, intimate nature?”
“No!” she said. “He was too riled up. One minute he was rambling about, ‘that no-good bastard, that thief!’ The next he was worried that he hadn’t lost enough weight, and that his pants would split on stage. I told him to just wear a different pair, but his assistant had lost his garment bag, and he didn’t have a wardrobe change. He was distraught.”
Slice glanced down at his stomach pooching out over his pants. “Turns out I had nothing to worry about. Leather is very forgiving.”
“Then he said he was hungry, starving actually, and he wanted something to eat before he went on stage, and would I—could—be a sweet girlfriend and grab him a sandwich from his mini-fridge?”
“Girlfriends can be nice that way,” Slice said.
“Girlfriends are not designated waitresses,” I said.
“I know that, and I still told him ‘Yes,’” Julia said. “But when I looked inside the fridge, there wasn’t any food, only soft drinks and mini bottles of liquor. He thought someone had stolen his snackies, wailed about that for a few moments, and then told me to just pour him a stiff drink.”
“Thief!” Slice said.
“Did you?” I asked.
“No.” She sat down on the bed next to him as his eyes widened. “I could tell from his breath that he’d already had enough to drink, so I told him to park it and chill out. I’d go find craft services and make him a sandwich.”
“She left me,” Slice said and brushed his fingers across the top of her hand. “My beautiful Uli turned, walked out of the room, and left me.”
“I wandered the back hallways of the Nokia theatre for ten minutes. That place is enormous, filled with freaky looking people, and if you thought the chick wrapped in bacon was suspicious, she was just the tip of the iceberg, my friend,” Julia said. “I was actually a little scared. By the time I discovered the craft services buffet, it was plundered. The only thing left were pickles, a few slices of ham that looked suspicious, half a Kaiser roll, and mayonnaise. What kind of sandwich could I make with that? I didn’t want to poison him, for Pete’s sakes. In hindsight, maybe I should have. If I had gotten back to his room in time, I might have given him food poisoning, but he wouldn’t have left, and his head wouldn’t have been bashed in, and he’d probably still be alive.”
“Were there signs of a struggle when you returned?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. His black leather binder with all his songs and his poetry was missing, but his favorite guitar was still in the room. He took both of those things with him wherever he went, so I found that odd. This time one stayed behind and the other wasn’t there? Something was off. But I knew he’d want that guitar in hand when he accepted his award. So I picked it up and found my way from his room up toward the stage. That’s when I heard the commotion. That’s when I saw him collapse on stage. Did you bring Slice’s hair voodoo-dad?” Julia stood up, pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
“Yes,” I slipped it out of my pants pocket and handed it to her.
“I’ll never forget Slice as long as I live. I’ll miss him forever.” She squeezed the trinket and pressed it to her heart as her eyes welled with tears.
“I’m so sorry, honey. This one stings, and this one sucks,” I said, “but I promise you that we will get through the latest debacle, just like we always do. And we will be stronger chicks because of it, and you will carry on, just like Rose did in the movie Titanic after Jack died.”
“Okay.” She nodded and wiped a few tears away. “Here’s to carrying on.”
“Here’s to carrying on!” We clicked our imaginary glasses high in the air. “You good?”
“I’m okay. I’ll live. Unlike Slice,” she said. “The no-good bastard’s haunting you isn’t he?”
Bacon Old Fashioned Cocktail
Fry up some bacon.
Enjoy as you normally would as slices, with eggs and toast. Or in cheesy grilled bacon and tomato sandwiches.
Let your bacon grease cool down but not solidify.
Take bottle of your favorite bourbon.
Pour out 1/3 cup.
Pour in 1/3 cup of bacon grease.
Shake bottle of bourbon thoroughly.
Let stand for several hours on the countertop.
Then put in your refrigerator NOT the freezer.
Let set in fridge for around five days.
Now the bourbon is infused with the bacon.
Use a thin metal strainer to pour the bourbon out into a different container.
Clean out the original bottle the bourbon came in.
Pour your infused bourbon WITHOUT the strained bacon grease back into the container.
Add the 1/3 bourbon you poured out if you didn’t drink that yet.
Put cap on and give it a good shake.
Now it tastes like yummy bacon!
Fill tall glass with ice.
Pour in 2 ounces of bacon infused bourbon.
Add ½ oz. maple syrup or honey.
Add a splash of bitters.
Stir thoroughly.
Garnish with an orange or lemon twist.
DRINK RESPONSIBLY and only for those of age!
Chapter 11
The Full Scoop
Annie
Four days passed, six new gray hairs sprouted, and thirty-six thousand of my brain cells expired while I waited for Slice to pass to the Afterlife. I caught myself searching online grocery sites for lamb shoulder roasts on sale at local butcher shops, realized I was powerless and needed help, broke down, and begged my non-denominational gods to help escort this famous rock star to the Other Side.
Besides escaping to my day job at Mort’s Deli, I took cover in my studio apartment while Slice haunted me in a kind
and gentle fashion, the way nice people do when they didn’t know their ticket on this earth was up.
He sang me a collection of his greatest hits, and warbled a medley of his B-side lesser known tunes. He begged and wheedled me to cook for him, and then in his next breath, bitched about his weight. He decided he needed to exercise more, and so he danced in front of me: shaking his ass, twerking, and fondling his chest. “My friend Rod wrote a song about this,” he said and tossed his long, greasy hair over his shoulder. “Go ahead, you can tell me. Do you?” He twirled around my living room floor with his imaginary guitar. “Do you think—”
“No,” I said. “I do not think you’re sexy. I’m sorry.”
“There’s always one Debbie Downer in the bunch.” He frowned, plopped down on the floor in a corner, and strummed his guitar dejectedly. I thought the worst was over but five minutes later, he’d completely forgotten my critique and started up his song and dance routine again. If I heard him sing his hit song Cailín Came A Hailing one more time, I’d track the girl down that inspired it and punch her in the face.
But I was determined to be a positive person and percolated on solutions to our problem. I turned on the TV to give Slice something to do, but he wouldn’t watch it. Said too much “watching of the television” stifled his creativity, and that it was a crime that his friend Mick’s show, “Vinyl,” had been canceled after only one season. I invited Julia over, thinking her company might distract him, but she was too weirded out about the whole thing, and flat out refused.
My cat, on the other hand, was a captive audience. Slice followed my ginormous kitty around my tiny apartment “communicating” with him. Theodore humored his attempts with a few irritated looks and one loud hissy fit until he up and went missing on the third day. It took me an hour to find my furry feline snuggled under a dirty towel, hiding out in a laundry basket shoved in the back of a closet, his blue eyes spinning in his head, clearly hanging by one proverbial claw at the end of his rope.
The Annie Graceland Cupcakes Cozy Mystery Box Set #2: Books 5 - 7 Page 34