“Fine. Did you feed Theodore yet?” he asked. “I hear him meowing. It’s his desperate meow, the one he does when he thinks he’s going to starve.”
I glared at my cat. “Traitor!” I hissed and stood up. “I’m doing that now. Thanks for stopping by. Very thoughtful of you. Almost something a married man, aka a husband would do. But I guess you know about that kind of stuff being that you’re Someone Else’s Husband.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” he said, and I heard hard steps on the pavers as he walked away.
I made my way into the kitchen, passed Slice who was leaning back against the refrigerator, and cracked open a can of cat food for Theodore.
“Are you sure you want to wait for tomorrow?” Slice asked. “Sometimes life doesn’t give you second chances.”
I swiveled and faced him. “Wait a minute. Does this mean that you know that you’re like, oh, how can I put this nicely…”
“Yes, love. I’m dead. No food. No shagging. No naggy messages from my pervert producer, Paul Vanderveen. No one suing my sorry behind for a riff or a melody, or an intro to their pathetic song they think I stole from them. It just started to add up. Not to mention my head won’t stop hurting on the one side; it feels bashed in.”
“Oh my God! You think Paul Vanderveen’s a pervert, too?”
“Totally. I saw your scribblings on that scratch paper on your countertop. Apparently, I missed the Sloupie Memorial, which pains me, but there’s another one today. Let’s go find my killer, shall we? Because I don’t believe I passed away from natural causes.”
We dressed for Slice’s memorial at Julia’s place because I’d already started to pack for my upcoming move. My place was a mess and she had a much nicer bathroom with better mirrors.
I was done living in a studio apartment. If I was going to share space with a cat, my boyfriend—oh right, scratch the boyfriend—my mother when she came to visit, a random ghost or two or three, and whatever other member of a living or dead motley crew—hopefully not the band, I heard they were a little wild—who wished to pay me a visit, I’d be doing it from a cushy one bedroom apartment.
“Did you get things figured out with Raphael?” Julia asked.
“No.”
“Did you at least talk to him?”
“No.”
“Why are you being so stubborn?” She asked.
“Because fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times—I’m an idiot.”
“I’m confused,” Julia said. “I didn’t know Raphael fooled you three times.”
“He didn’t. But I’ve been dealt bad hands in the love department with cheaters, and I will not go down that sordid route again,” I said.
“Speaking of sordid routes—you signed another lease with creepy John Fartier’s leasing company,” Julia said as she tossed dresses onto her bed. “Couldn’t you have found another Venice slumlord to rent from?”
“Technically, I did. John Fartier is in prison for killing Anthony Spiggottini, my former apartment manager. I signed a lease with his brother, Alex Fartier. The price was right,” I said. “Only a hundred more bucks a month if I agree to be his onsite apartment manager. Apparently the murder and subsequent arrest have left a void. Rocky roads still need to be traveled, my friend.”
“You’re moving one building over to a place that features one extra room. Perhaps you could have picked the road less traveled?”
“All roads lead to the same place, which is ultimately the Afterlife. Some folks believe you land in heaven or hell. I’m moving to a place that has a bedroom with a door,” I said. “I call that heaven.”
“Do you even know what being an apartment manager entails?” she asked. “Hurry up. You need to get dressed.”
“All I have to do is collect the rent checks and drop them off at Mr. Fartier’s office once a month. I’m already dressed,” I said.
“You can’t wear that to Slice’s memorial.” Julia gave me the once over with a disapproving eye. “Paul Vanderveen is no longer the pudgy boy geek who produces music out of his garage, gets drunk, and leers at women.”
“Right,” I said. “He’s now the gym rat adult geek who produces music out of his fancy studio, gets drunk, and leers at women.”
“And he’s a billionaire.”
“And, I don’t care. Besides, you cannot guilt me into wearing the same outfit that I wore to the UMAs. You cannot make me squeeze back into that sausage casing dress. I thought I was going to explode all over everyone at the UMAs.”
“I’m the one that got Slice’s blood on my vintage outfit when he died. I was manhandled by the cops, and I survived a night in the L.A. jail, which isn’t the Holiday Inn my friend.” She slipped on a modest, fitted, knee-length cocktail dress, and zipped it up. “Besides, my dry cleaner said the outfit was no longer salvageable. Which pains me, but I’ll always have Slice’s hair.”
She squeezed the hair voodoo-dad that hung from the long silver chain around her neck and smoothed her skirt with her other hand, as she eyed herself in a full-length stand-alone mahogany mirror situated in the corner of the room. “I was thinking that something tasteful and black would be appropriate.”
I glanced down at my black yoga pants, black runners, and pretty long-sleeved, black cotton lacey T-shirt. “Hey, I’m dressed in black. That’s totally appropriate for a memorial.”
“You look like you’re going to a trendy yoga class.”
“If I’m lucky, I’ll hit one on the way back,” I said. “How long do you think this thing will last? Last night derailed me. I need to stretch and sweat and move through all the sadness. Mine and everyone else’s. Maybe then I’ll feel like a human being again.”
“I’m sorry, honey. I’m going there to mourn,” Julia said. “And check out Vanderveen’s fabulous place. David Schoenfelder says that Pancetta has an air-tight alibi, and is most likely not Slice’s killer. Therefore you, on the other hand, are still on a reconnaissance mission, seeking out the usual and unusual suspects.” She squeezed Slice’s hair voodoo-dad again and glanced around. “He’s here, isn’t he?”
I couldn’t tell if the expression on her face was filled with hope, dread, or simple curiosity. “Yes,” I said. “I think he’ll be attending his memorial with us. That’s a common fantasy, you know. Pop in at your funeral and see who’s crying real tears, who’s shedding fake ones, and who’s snickering in the corner.”
“Oh.” Julia bit her lip.
Slice stared back at her from the mirror’s reflection. “Pretty,” he said. “Uli’s so pretty. Where am I?” He stepped out of the mirror. “I’m hungry. Can one of you two lovelies make me a little sandwich? Or do you want a Slice sandwich?” He smiled at us and shook his behind.
“Other than being dead,” Julia said, “is he okay?”
“No. I thought he finally knew he was dead, but I think he just forgot. His memory’s spotty. He needs to pass to the Afterlife, and he needs to pass now.”
Julia bit her lip. “We can work on that, right?”
“I’ve been working on it for a while now,” I said. “Help me, I beg you. Maybe there’s something we need to do to convince him to let go. Spirits tend to resist passing for a reason. Perhaps someone or something’s holding him to this earth. Tethering him to a plane of existing that he doesn’t need to be held to anymore. I’m open to all suggestions. He’s driving me crazy. I can’t stand the man. What did you ever see in him?”
“Oh,” she said and frowned. “Right.”
But it wasn’t right. Houston we had a problem—I had just lied to my BFF—the problem wasn’t that I didn’t like Slice. The problem was that I was feeling sorry for him.
One minute he was filled with sexual innuendos, bravado, and shaking his ass. The next he was begging to be fed, like a scared little boy. He slid up and down the scale from being a rebellious teenager to a pathetic toddler in the span of thirty seconds. He’d already told Julia the years of excess had taken their toll and worn on him.
/>
I wondered if we might find some more specific clues at the memorial. Perhaps people—or more specifically, a person—had taken advantage of him. Perhaps Slice had caught a person who was up to no good, a person who was more than a sandwich thief. And now due to the deterioration of his rock star brain, he had conveniently forgotten the details of what happened after Julia left his room to make him a sandwich.
He didn’t remember, or didn’t know who had taken his black notebook filled with his scribblings and writings and poetry. Perhaps the piece of his mind that kept mis-firing still contained memories, and clues about who killed him. He kept mentioning a thief. I percolated…who was the bandit, and besides his notebooks, what could they have wanted from him?
There was a ‘knock-knock-knock’ on the door and Grady burst into the room. Or should I say, his top hat burst into the room.
“Hello, Mad Hatter,” Slice said. “Welcome.”
“Hello, weirdo,” I said. “What’s up with the goofy chapeau?”
“It’s a memorial service for a rock star, yes?” Grady asked. “I can’t just show up like someone who looks like they’re going to a yoga class. I’m double-parked. Are we just about ready?”
“Annie is going to a yoga class,” Julia said as she spritzed on enough hair spray to high gloss lacquer a car. “Could you please convince her to at least put on some decent jewelry?”
“Annie, please put on some decent jewelry.” Grady frowned and fanned his face. “Don’t get that stinky, sticky hairspray stuff near my hat. It’s been in a box for a few decades now. It’s vintage.” He glanced down at his watch. “Chop, chop, ladies! I don’t want to get a parking ticket and I don’t want to be late!”
“Might I say, Harry Houdini,” Slice said, “that I’m your biggest fan! I would love if you would pull a rabbit or two out of your hat. I rather like bunnies. They’re not rodents you know, not that I have anything against rats. They’re classified as lagomorphas and they’re herbivores.”
Grady popped the door open and beckoned as we walked through it. “Aren’t you delighted that we’re doing something fun that has nothing whatsoever to do with a ghost, or finding a murderer? I say things are on the upswing around here.”
“You haven’t told him?” Julia asked.
“Haven’t told me what?” Grady slammed the door. “Is it someone’s birthday? Wait a minute—something positive happened in Julia’s case. She’s no longer a suspect. That’s it. Right?”
“Close but not completely out of the woods,” Julia said.
“Wait a minute. Get out of town. Are we in the middle of another murder investigation?” Grady asked. “Is Slice haunting you? All the little hairs on my arms are standing up. I totally have a feeling—”
“More than a Feeling!” Slice sang and riffed on his imaginary guitar, and leapt up in the air.
I sighed. “Unless you want to hear the band Boston’s greatest hits all night, I suggest we get this over with.”
Chapter 17
The Good Old Days
Annie
I loved Malibu as much as I hated Hollywood.
I stood on the edge of Paul Vanderveen’s multi-million dollar property and gazed down at the Pacific Ocean. Its surf slapped up against the narrow sandy and rock-strewn beaches hundreds of yards below me. This section of Malibu wasn’t money. This section of Malibu was big money.
I wandered past the elegant, rectangular pool with the floating candles. Passed a few buffet tables, some celebs I recognized and should have known their names, but didn’t, as I made my way back inside Paul Vanderveen’s ginormous modern beach McMansion. As much as I wanted to despise the place, it was utterly and perfectly exquisite.
The party was catered—tasteful without being stuffy. For once, Julia was right and I would have been underdressed. I was grateful that she made me go back inside her place and change into a below the knee black skirt lined with layers of tulle and borrow a pair of her simple black flats. Now I looked like a sad ballerina that was a step up from the sad clown look I had sported about a week prior, immediately after Slice was killed at the UMAs.
Paul Vanderveen had spared no expense for Slice’s memorial. In the spiritual department, there was a Catholic priest in full regalia, two habit-wearing nuns, a rabbi, three Tibetan monks in orange robes, an Iman, and a Baptist minister clutching a Bible. The food was laid out on banquet tables on the back lawn, a section of the front lawn, and in one of the three dining rooms adjacent to the kitchen five times the size of my apartment. The music producer business had paid off well for Paul, and I was starting to wonder if I should change his nickname from ‘Pervert’ to ‘Friend’.
“Wish me luck,” Julia whispered as she tiptoed up the staircase to the second floor.
“Where are you going?” I whispered. “Don’t leave me all alone.” I saw Pancetta on the far side of the two story open-aired living room chatting with Paul Vanderveen. I almost didn’t recognize her dressed in normal clothes without her bacon suit. Johnny Blackfoot held court playing the grand piano, entertaining a few cute girls with selections of his and Slice’s music.
“There are at least a hundred people here. You’re not alone. If I don’t find Vanderveen’s closet now, I might never see it,” Julia said. “It’s on my bucket list. Grab Grady if you’re feeling nervous. Remember: enjoy the food, the ambience, but at the end of the day, you’re here to investigate. And I don’t mean for you to wait until the end of today to do that. You should be doing it now.”
“I haven’t seen Grady since he handed the keys to the valet guy,” I said.
“I bet he beat me to the shoe closet. Bastard! We had a bet.” She trotted up the steps, paused, and waved at me. “Be careful!” she said, and then disappeared around a bend.
“Yes, Commandant,” I said. “Good luck!”
I do believe “Be careful” applied more to my stomach with the vast array of exotic foods and drinks that were offered at the buffet at the memorial held in Slice’s honor. I filled a plate of Vietnamese spring rolls, German Kuchen, Austrian sausages, and some Italian flatbread, but this time I passed over the bacon wraps.
I sighed and plunked down in a comfy side chair next to a coffee table, leaned back, and eyed the party-in-progress. Glossy, colorful posters of Slice in his rock star days hung from the vaulted second-story ceiling on invisible wires that seemed to float above the guests. The crowd was coiffed and well attired; eccentric without being too costumed up and/or over the top.
Paul Vanderveen smiled from across the room and walked over to me. I wasn’t sure if I needed to make a run for it, but he was at my side before I could even sink back in my chair. “Annie Graceland,” he said. “I was an insufferable jerk to you at the UMAs. I hope the flowers were to your liking. I formally apologize for my rude remarks and behavior. I don’t know what got into me.”
“I know what got into you—too much Red Bull and pricy liquor. The flowers were lovely. Thank you.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I was thinking that maybe you and I could start fresh. Go back to square one. Get to know each other as friends. You were always nice to me in the good old days.”
“But the good old days are over and gone. We’ve lived twenty years since then, seen a lot, done even more. Life’s moved on, obviously. Your beautiful house and all your success are the perfect examples of that,” I said. “Besides, I fear that you’ll always think of me as The Cupcake Killer. And that’s not who I am.”
“The house is amazing. My company is just a bigger extension of what I did in those garages and dank old warehouses back in Milwaukee. I like music. I’m good at producing.” Paul beckoned to a waiter who hustled over to us. “I’ll never be a performer, Annie; I’ll always be a behind-the-scenes kind of guy. Maybe you can help me find a way to get over the notoriety, forget about the salaciousness. Return to our simpler roots.”
The waiter held out a crystal flute filled with bubbly. “Perrier-Jouet, miss?”
“Only the best fo
r Slice’s send off,” Paul said. “2005 was a very good year.”
“I’d love a glass. Thank you.” I accepted the glass and sipped.
“I was 2005’s Sexiest Man Alive!” Slice materialized on the arm of my chair.
“Paul, I hope I haven’t misled you. Back in the day, I used to be crazy for your pal, Johnny.” A sharp pain stabbed my chest, and I cleared my throat.
“All the pretty young girls crushed on Johnny.” Paul nodded. “But, funny, after all these years, some things never change. Johnny’s still courting his first love.”
“Ah. Right. Belinda,” I said and took another sip. Interesting that Johnny cheated on me, but he was still loyal to his first love.
Paul laughed. “Belinda’s not his first love.”
“The pianist is playing some of my music,” Slice said. “I’m going to go give that starving musician a tip. It’s a shame how the musicians are never paid that well.” He ambled toward the cluster of girls surrounding the grand piano.
Paul looked over at Johnny and saluted him. “Nice to see Johnny’s performing again. He’s been behind the scenes for too long now. He makes a great bodyguard, but it’s past time he got back to doing music.”
Another hot stab skewered my stomach, sharp like a dagger. I felt the blood drain from my face. I glanced up and saw Pancetta maneuvering through the crowd past Paul and me.
“Ah, yes,” I told Paul. “Pancetta was probably his first love.”
“Not Pancetta,” Paul said.
“Annie!” she said. “We must catch up again very soon, Bella!” She hurried toward the foyer.
“Yes, of course,” I said and placed my hand on my stomach to calm whatever was happening down there. And just as quickly as the pangs started, they left. And it dawned on me that this wasn’t acid reflux or bad eggrolls.
I was having an empathic reaction—feeling someone else’s emotions. I was feeling pangs of resentment, stabs of jealousy. Someone here was envious of the attention Paul was bestowing on me. Or was it something else?
The Annie Graceland Cupcakes Cozy Mystery Box Set #2: Books 5 - 7 Page 38