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

by Pamela DuMond

  “Did she pull off the costume like a guy hawking a hot dog on a street corner at Coney Island or a vintage Hollywood goddess showing up at her movie premiere in a fabulous gown?”

  “The latter,” Julia said and downed her champagne.

  Mable whistled under her breath. “Then you spotted Pancetta. I heard that she flew in from Rome for the UMAs. She’s been artist in residence at the Roma Museum for the Performing Arts the last six months. Said she wouldn’t have missed Slice’s big night for the world. You know, back in the day, he dumped her for Kristy McKristenson, right?”

  “Get out of town!” Julia said.

  Mable nodded. “I’m not sure Pancetta ever got over that. She was exotic and famous, and Kristy was just a young, pretty brunette with a boob job, great hair, and a fetching smile. Ooh—I wonder if she knows that Kristy’s here. Catfight. Meow! One can only hope!”

  “That won’t happen,” Julia said. “We’ve always shared.”

  “What are you, like the ‘Sister Wives’?” I asked.

  “Not that weird, but we’ve always been a supportive group,” she said. “We’re caring.”

  “Slice was murdered,” I said. “Perhaps one of the Sloupies cared a little too much.”

  And it dawned on me: Julia saw the chick wrapped in bacon right before Slice was killed. Grady saw the chick wrapped in bacon at the Magical Mystery Tour Bar right after Slice was killed. Pancetta had not only flown in for the UMAs, she was a spurned lover, and spurned lovers always had a great motive for murder: revenge. What were the odds?

  Maybe she’d simply seized an opportunity when Julia wandered away from Slice’s room to find him something to eat. Maybe Pancetta had been planning this all along. Maybe, everything didn’t always go better with bacon.

  Chapter 15

  Cupcake Killer

  Annie

  The groupie crowd at Cocktails A Go-Go grew like wildfire that had been introduced to a pile of tinder. What had started off as a friendly little gathering had turned into a crowd of close to two hundred emotionally on-the-edge folks. It was the saddest, sweetest, and scariest group of tipsy women on the planet.

  Who would have guessed that Slice, the old horn dog, could attract so many loyal fans to this kitschy little bar in Hollywood at such short notice—especially now that he was dead?

  “Such is the power of rock 'n' roll,” Derrick Fuller said after I had snuck out into the street to catch a breather from all the emotions that were hitting me like a baseball bat, blindsiding me at the memorial.

  “Not tonight, Derrick,” I walked a few steps away from him. “This is just too tragic. I can’t take anymore drama.”

  He followed me. “I’ve got news for you, Cupcake. You are what you live, which at this point means that you are drama.” He leaned back against a brick wall and watched the masses of tourists, partiers, and pedestrians pass. “God, I miss this place. It’s vibrant.”

  “It’s loud,” I said.

  “It’s vivid,” he said. “It’s life at its splashiest painted in bright colors. See all the sights. Enjoy the outrageous experiences. Encounter the extraordinary people.”

  “Why are you waxing nostalgic?” I asked.

  “I miss being alive,” he said, a rueful smile on his lips. “I miss the parties, and the hub-bub. I long for the excess.”

  “I bet you don’t miss the pain, heartache, or the angst,” I said. “The Sloupies are shedding real tears for a man they genuinely loved in their own way. I’m the empathic one here. I pick up on what these people are feeling. And right now it’s not rainbows and butterflies.”

  He nodded. “You probably feel like an extra absorbent, angst-ridden, snotty tissue. I bet you want to get the hell out of here.”

  “It’s all I can do not to race to my car, leave my BFF high and dry, and drive home to my beloved cat.”

  “How is Pompadour?” he asked. “Eating again?”

  “His name is Theodore,” I said. “Yes. Thanks for the heads up on the new Hawaii Kitty Delicacy cat food. He loves it.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “Maybe you should leave this party. Maybe it’s too much for you.”

  “I can’t leave. I’ve gotta stay. I’m good at helping people.”

  He nodded. “Look how much you’ve helped me.”

  “Except for catching your killer—not that much.” I shrugged. “But certainly not for lack of trying. Arrivederci, Dr. Fuller. I need to get back to work. Have fun with all your sights.” I turned and made my way back to the bar.

  “Don’t forget, Cupcake,” he said, “when Slice passes to the Afterlife, I’m going to be on that ride with him.”

  “Then you need to show up when the train leaves the station.” I waved at him as I passed through the side gate and returned to the party.

  A sound system played a medley of Slice’s music in the background. There was hugging and kissing, memories shared, and tears galore as the night grew three sheets of cocktails deeper into the wind.

  There were a few guys in attendance, but for the most part, The Sloupies were a female fan club. Membership to the group didn’t require that one slept with Slice to be part of the sisterhood of the traveling rock star. A kiss, a signed concert poster, T-shirt, or a rock 'n' roll themed tattoo would grant you access to the private club.

  Julia had secretively joined the Sloupies after Slice’s concert in Milwaukee when he pulled her up on stage out of the mosh pit. Her brief moment of fame had been extended when, after their dance, she not only refused to be pushed back down, but yanked the clump of hair out of his head. Julia was a Sloupie Hall of Famer.

  Everyone at the gig assumed that I was a Sloupie. Therefore, whenever someone asked how I knew Slice, I peered down at my feet, forced myself to look sad, and replied that he was extra special, or that we shared a love of lamb chops with a touch of mint jelly on the top, or Cailín Came A Hailing was like my favorite song of all times, and always made me cry. Well, at least the latter was true.

  An hour or so into the gig, someone dragged out a mic and the party took an even sloppier turn as one by one, the girls shared their favorite memories of the recently departed rock star. A tatted goth girl with too many piercings shared how her first tattoo was inspired by Slice when he performed at Madison Square Garden fifteen years ago. The crowd murmured appreciatively when she rolled up her sleeve and showed the likeness of his face, the guitar, and a lamb chop inked onto her forearm.

  I squinted at her and wondered if she was the same woman I spotted at the UMAs. No—there were just tatted goth girls everywhere in Hollywood, kind of like surfboards in Malibu, or girls who did too much yoga in Brentwood. A mesmerizing black-haired chick wrapped in a suit of bacon eyed Julia and me from across the patio. I inhaled sharply, shivered, and elbowed my BFF. “Is that who I think it is?”

  Julia glanced over. “Pancetta Carleone in the flesh.”

  “I figured as much. How many chicks wrapped in bacon could one rock star memorial hold?”

  “You’ve never been to one of these gigs, have you? Oh crap, Kristy McKristenson’s making her way toward the mic,” she said. “I need to go stand on Mable’s feet and clamp a hand over her mouth. I’ll never forgive myself if tonight’s festivities become violent. Can you handle Pancetta?”

  “Oh, I can bring home the bacon,” I said. “And if my hand is forced, I will fry it up with some flan.”

  “I don’t think that’s the original quote.” Julia smiled and moved toward Mable. “Text me if anything dicey happens.”

  I tried to appear nonchalant as Pancetta strolled through the crowd headed in our direction. She vaped with one hand, juggled her cocktail with the other, and still managed to Facetime with someone on her iPhone.

  I had Googled Pancetta Carleone as soon as Mable had dropped her name. She was a performance artist, trendsetter, lived all over the world, and dated fabulous, mostly famous people. She was Slice’s spurned lover, and now—at least in my mind—a murder suspect. I thought she’d s
wing right by me on her way toward Julia, who was a bit of a shining star at this event, with her YouTube video views now up to 25 million since Slice’s murder.

  But no, Pancetta did not veer from her course, and only stopped when she was close enough to practically stand on my toes. She gazed down at my Keds. “I spotted your shoes earlier. Where did you get them? I can only find them in black,” she said, and stuck one of her own feet out from under her bacon skirt and wiggled it in the air. “I want to buy pink, just like yours.”

  “DSW on sale!” I gasped. She too was wearing Keds—black high-tops with white laces. Apparently if you’re successfully pulling off a bacon outfit, one needed sensible footwear.

  “Grazie!” She air kissed me on both cheeks. “Piacere di conoscerti.”

  “Si,” I said, and before I could help myself, I curtseyed.

  She laughed and clapped her hands. “I am Pancetta Carleone,” she said. “You are?”

  “Annie Graceland.” I had to remind myself to breathe. I was face to face with a famous, perhaps dangerous, performance artist. But inhaling and exhaling around Pancetta was intoxicating; the air smelled of salt and smoked apples. My hand twitched and it was all I could do not to break a piece off her shoulder pad, and pop it in my mouth. I reminded myself that the local IHOP was open twenty-four hours a day, and I could hit it later because they served breakfast at any time.

  “Hmm. Sounds familiar.” Pancetta exhaled maple syrupy scented vapor into my face, as I tried not to cough. “Perhaps I’ve heard your name through mutual friends. Do you know Paul Vanderveen, the music producer?”

  I frowned. “Yes. I know Paul from his younger, more innocent days,” I said. “We all had them.”

  “You’re hopeful, Bella,” she said. “That is a good quality to have.”

  Oh crap, I hope Paul the Pervert hadn’t gossiped that I was the “Cupcake Killer” to his exotic friends, entourage, and every single person in his ginormous, virtual Rolodex. After the whole Dr. Derrick Fuller debacle, I had spent the last few years flying under the radar.

  I did not want people to recognize me. I did not want people to dredge up that awful time in my life so it could be dragged through the streets and dissected, ripped to pieces by common gossipmongers again. This could get really embarrassing really quickly. Underneath my tough exterior was a soft, warm beating heart, and I wasn’t sure it could survive another go around of this.

  “Are you a Sloupie?” she asked.

  “Meh.” I shrugged.

  “How did you know Slice?” Pancetta eyed me curiously.

  I cleared my throat. “I could tell you stories about our sordid past, but honestly, we don’t have a sordid past,” I said. “To sum it up in a nutshell, I’d have to say…he haunts me.”

  She nodded her head. “Capische. He haunts me, too.” A text pinged on her phone and she glanced down at it. “Must run, Bella. We will chat later, yes?” She raised an eyebrow, and then elbowed her way back into the crowd, honey-glazed mist wafting through the air behind her.

  In spite of the whole exotic bacon thing, and even though she was a suspect in Slice’s demise, I had to admit—I kind of liked Pancetta. Perhaps we bonded over our taste in shoes. Maybe it was because I wore an aroma of smoked apples, and trust me, there were worse things to smell like on Hollywood Boulevard. I reminded myself to be less judgmental, more open-minded, and not so crabby all the time. But then I spotted why Pancetta had left our conversation so abruptly.

  She touched the arm of a woman wearing a Band-Aid dress, stood on the tiptoes of her Keds, and kissed her on the cheek. “What took you so long to get here, Maria?” she asked.

  That dress looked awfully familiar. Come to think of it, the woman who wore it looked awfully familiar. I started feeling a little dizzy. Perhaps the vapor had something headier in it than simply au de bacon. I hoped I wasn’t getting high. I wasn’t a prude, but I hated weed. The party spun around in front of me, as the sounds got louder and softer all at the same time.

  Detective Maria Campillio turned and smiled at Pancetta. “I had to wait for… one to… off work. He wasn’t convinced that… he’s too busy…” She rubbed the arm of the man standing next to her. “I’m so glad you two finally get to meet. I’d like to intro… husband… Raphael Campillio.”

  My boyfriend, Raphael Campillio, the man attached to her hand turned around, and I managed to drop to the ground before he spotted me.

  Chapter 16

  Someone Else’s Husband

  Annie

  I crawled under the nearest picnic table, curled into a ball on the ground, and breathed into a cocktail napkin. After about twenty minutes or two days, I couldn’t tell, I texted Julia.

  She called Grady for backup. They ripped a tablecloth off one of the tables, wrapped me in it like I was a ghost (oh Lordie, look how far I’d fallen) and escorted me out of Cocktails A Go-Go and to my car. Once again I was incapable of driving, so that task fell on Grady.

  “I didn’t know he was ever married,” Julia said.

  “Neither did I.”

  “So, wait a minute,” Grady said, “Does this mean that he’s still married? Like, he’s been cheating the entire time? Because that doesn’t make any sense. He doesn’t seem like the type.”

  It was past midnight but we drove to the local IHOP in Marina del Rey California, because I wasn’t going to chance it staying anywhere near Hollywood, which I would now forever call the Land of Satan’s Just Desserts.

  “Do you know what you want?” The tired waitress asked as the harsh bright lights shone down upon us.

  “Yes,” I said. “I want the triple combo of pancakes, ice cream, bacon, and some eggs on the side. Can you give me the extra cholesterol, please? Sign me up for the maple syrup, the real kind, not the fake stuff, and can I have a heart transplant delivered to the table after I expire from clogged arteries and a broken heart in front of you and the other ten people in this joint?”

  “Yes,” she said and scribbled on her pad. “Do you want anything to drink with that?”

  “How about a round of water for the table?” Grady said. “Please and thank you, Miss.” She walked off.

  “How could you not know?” Julia squeezed my hand.

  “How could I know?” I said between sobs. We hashed through my boyfriend debacle for the next ten minutes the way good friends always do. “I told Raphael all about Mike. He knows everything about me. I’ve been completely candid. One hundred percent transparent.”

  “But you haven’t,” Grady said.

  “You never told him about your psychic thing,” Julia said. “You never told him that you see dead people or that you solve their murder mysteries.”

  I slammed my hand on the Formica tabletop and three beefy biker dudes seated at the booth next to us jumped.

  “I call apples and oranges,” I said as our waitress dropped off our order. “‘Fessing up to Raphael that I talk to ghosts is nothing compared to him telling me that he was married.” My phone buzzed.

  Julia grabbed it. “Why is he texting you at almost one in the morning?”

  “Because that’s what guys do.” Grady said, and then inhaled sharply. “Or what if he found out your were at the Sloupie Memorial, and he knows something’s up?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s up. The gig is up.” I sawed into my pancakes. “I’m never talking to him again!”

  “Yes, you are,” Julia said. “You don’t let go of someone you love that easily. There’s obviously been some kind of misunderstanding.”

  “Yes, there has been,” I said. “I ordered real maple syrup, and this isn’t real. I can tell the difference, you know.”

  “It’s not good to hold onto unreal expectations,” Grady said. “Besides, we’re not in Vermont.”

  I’d already started to pack for my upcoming move, there were boxes everywhere, and I didn’t even bother pulling out my sofa sleeper that night. What did it matter, really?

  Raphael was married. Raphael was married to a girl name
d Maria. I was a baked potato with chubby cheeks, and I’d picked the wrong guy yet again. But this time I managed to pick the wrong guy who was sweet and kind and gentle. He just didn’t seem like a cheater.

  I tossed and turned, pulled the comforter over my head. Around three a.m., Theodore jumped on top of me. He felt just like a stuffed animal, albeit a squirmy one, and we slept fitfully until the next day, when a firm ‘knock-knock-knock’ sounded on my door.

  “Go away!” I hollered.

  “It’s me,” a familiar male voice said from outside the door. “Who left the enormous bouquet of flowers on your front stoop? I wish it was me, but it wasn’t.”

  I frowned. “I don’t open my door to strange flowers or strange men.”

  “It’s Raphael,” he said. “I’m not a stranger.”

  “Oh yes, you are. You’re Someone Else’s Husband,” I said.

  Theodore paced back and forth next to the door and meowed plaintively.

  “I am not someone else’s husband,” he said. “Let me in. I can explain.”

  I squinted at the clock on the wall: it was already noon. I needed to get ready for Slice’s fancy memorial at Paul Vanderveen’s spread in Malibu. My eyes were nearly swollen shut and the last thing I needed was to seal their fate and cement them together by getting into whatever it was going to be with Raphael Campillio. If anyone was going to stab what little remained of my heart, it would be done after I had gotten some decent sleep, and I was able to see again. “I’m sorry, no. I don’t have time for explanations today. I’m late for a gig.”

  “Fine,” he said. “Then tomorrow. When I’m off work. I’ll take you out to—”

  “I don’t go out with married men, Detective Campillio,” I said. “You should already know that about me. I’m a loyal kind of girl.”

  I heard him sigh through the door. Theodore looked over at me, his eyes widened, and he squeaked in protest.