Pamela DuMond - Annie Graceland 03 - Cupcakes, Pies, and Hot Guys

by Pamela DuMond

  Annie glanced over at Jamie, who looked down at his feet. His jaw was clenched so tight that his facial muscles twitched. He pulled back his shoulders, composed himself and faced the crowd. “The victim is Frank Plank, Mr. Oconomowoc.”

  “No!” Several people in the crowd cried out. Others screamed and burst into tears.

  Mrs. McGillicuddy’s face blanched white. She stumbled for a second and then sat back awkwardly onto her chair.

  In the crowd of spectators, a gorgeous young woman with long jet-black shiny hair wearing short shorts burst into tears. Lila DeLovely careened through the masses, heading toward the exit, her pretty face collapsed into one trembling hand. A much older doughy fellow huffed after her.

  Suzy recovered from her swoon and stood up, ramrod straight. “Don’t leave, Lila! Mommy’s here!”

  A police officer intercepted and gently restrained Lila.

  Frank swiveled and stared at her. “Lila. I’m sorry!” But only Annie heard him.

  “You don’t touch her!” Suzy jumped off the stage and pushed her way through the audience toward her daughter.

  Annie plopped down on the floor of the judges’ booth, her head in her hands and cried. “What if I let you down?”

  “Then at least you will have tried.” Frank held her hands as she blubbered.

  Jamie Ryan knelt down next to Annie on the judges’ stage and placed his hands on top of hers. Actually on top of Frank’s.

  Dead Frankie released Annie’s hands just in time for the very much alive Jamie to pick them up.

  “He was a really sweet kid,” Annie hiccupped.

  Jamie wrapped his arms around her. “I know.” He pulled her tight to his chest and hugged her for a few seconds.

  The hug felt warm. It felt comforting. It felt… Annie pulled away.

  “Frank was my friend. I encouraged him to enter this stupid contest,” Jamie said. “We need to find his killer and bring him to justice during the competition.”

  “You’re not shutting it down?” Annie asked.

  “Hell, no. I think Frank’s killer is here. And you, my….” Jamie stared into Annie’s eyes.

  “Former babysitter?” she prompted.

  “You, my friend—” He leaned in close to her face and whispered. “You are going to be my behind-the-scenes informant to help me figure out who killed Frank and bring that asshole to justice.”

  “I’m not the greatest investigator.” Annie gazed across the Lake Lodge lawn. Cops and deputies descended onto the place looking deadly serious as they prepared to interview everybody at the festivities, including the gnats.

  “From what I remember, you’re great with just about everything.” Jamie squeezed her hands, stood up and walked off, leaving Annie sitting cross-legged on the judges’ platform. All alone except for Frank Plank, the dead guy, the beautiful ghost who hadn’t yet passed. He squatted next to Annie and watched the commotion.

  “Thank you,” Frank said. “Thank you for helping me.”

  “I’m going to try. I promise you, Frankie. I’m going to try.” She wiped away her tears with the back of her hand.

  Nine

  Pageant Pizzas

  The Oconomowoc City PD and associates worked fast. Every Hot Guy, judge, advertiser and sponsor was questioned. Each lusty fan and participant was interviewed and ID’d. Their information and accounts of everything they saw, thought they saw or overheard (especially anything that might be construed as suspicious) was recorded, logged and already being investigated by the forensic experts—aka—the brainy underpaid assistants.

  Hours later around—three p.m.—it was still ninety-nine degrees with ninety-nine percent humidity. The fans were expecting a fun afternoon—not interrogations. They had grown testy, emotional and angry. The eighty-year-old Polson twins’ argument over who got the last orange juice had escalated to hair pulling. Not good for Charles Polson. His thin combover was an easy target for his grabby sister, Estelle.

  The pageant crew tried not to freak. They brought in bottled water and coffee dispensers. But the crowd wasn’t just thirty. They were hungry.

  In an effort to keep the peace several contestants banded together. They passed out their remaining appetizers, beers, mineral waters and fruit juices. Misters Sheboygan, Richland Center, Madison and Milwaukee upped the ante and ordered a truckload of three for-the-price-of one pizzas from Pepe’s Pizzeria and Pies on their own dime.

  But the Pepe’s driver was held up for a half hour, stuck in gridlock traffic. By the time the pizzas got to the booths, they were cold, which further incensed the crowd.

  Annie’s arms were a medium pink, headed towards carnation red. Her sunscreen was safely packed in her luggage that most likely waited for her in her comfy hotel room. She’d crawled under one of the judges’ folding tables an hour earlier to avoid being completely fried, and ate a slice of cold pizza from a paper plate.

  “This contest is doomed.” Frank sat in front of her, his legs crossed in a meditation position as he rocked gently. His bloodstains hadn’t deepened on his T-shirt. And although he was dead, he was still handsome.

  “Why do you care?” Annie asked.

  “Because a lot of people worked very hard to make this contest happen. All the proceeds go to charity. Research shows many people still contribute to their favorite charity even if they’re not sure they can pay their mortgage this month.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” Frank said. “All the work that went into creating the Hot Guys Contest? All the man and woman power, the sacrifices, the late nights, the sponsors, the contributions? The contest will die here, right now, just like me—unless someone picks the ball up and runs with it.”

  “Why?”

  “These people.” He pointed to the fans.

  “The guy who’s peeing in the bushes? The woman who’s aiming her index finger at her temple and pretending to fire? The guy who’s shirtless, stripped down to his jockeys and wearing his pants wrapped around his head like a turban?”

  “My people,” Frank said.

  “Your people appear disgruntled, irritated and pissed off.”

  “They have every right. They didn’t come here to be quarantined, starved and interrogated.”

  “Okay.” Annie nodded and offered a piece of pizza to Frank.

  He reached for it but couldn’t pick it up. She pushed the slice closer to him. He tried again. But the pizza transfer didn’t happen.

  Annie’s eyes grew huge.

  Frank’s eyes grew huge.

  “Sorry.” She pulled the slice away.

  “Me too,” Frank said. “Apparently there’s no more pizza for the dead guy.”

  “I believe in God. And God wouldn’t be that cruel. There’s got to be pizza in heaven,” Annie said.

  “But I’m not there. Whatever,” Frank said. “Except for the obligatory weirdoes, the people that shelled out the bucks to attend Wisconsin’s first annual Hot Guys Contest felt like they could make a difference. They could contribute and have a great time.”

  “Got it,” Annie said.

  Frankie took her hand. “But because I’ve been murdered, their minds are now fixated on Linda Blair’s rotating head. How will you make them think of Luke Skywalker? How will you do this so quickly that they don’t abandon this contest and remember this as their worst day ever?”

  Annie frowned. She didn’t have an answer. “Nothing’s ever easy, is it?”

  “Not for a babysitter,” Frank said. “And definitely not for a pageant judge.”

  Annie face-palmed her forehead into the heel of her hand. What could she do? What rabbit could she pull out of her non-existent hat? When something whizzed through the air under the table and impaled her ear. “Ow!” She pulled a skinny paper dart out of her ear and regarded it quizzically.

  “Ahem!” Mrs. McGillicuddy leaned her head upside down under the table and peered at Annie. “I apologize for the unorthodox delivery. My rheumatism prohibits me from kneeling down to properly hand this to
you. It is, however, past time you possess a copy of the pageant’s itinerary. So you won’t be tardy. Again.”

  Annie unfolded the dart and gazed upon the official judges’ itinerary. A smaller folded paper fell onto her lap. “Thank you, Mrs. McGillicuddy.”

  “Thank me after you’ve read it. And check the fine print on that one as well.” She pointed to the paper square in Annie’s lap. “I’ve included a little something else for your reading pleasure. May the saints be with Frank Plank and his family.” She crossed herself and toddled off.

  Annie perused the document. It didn’t include details on Frank’s untimely demise or the police investigation. But it did list the next activity scheduled after the brunch, several hours after the announcement of the finalists.

  She unfolded the other part of the dart—several skinny long papers stapled together. Eyed them. And cracked her first smile since Frank died. She pulled her cell phone out of her purse and hit one button.

  It rang. “Pick up. Pick up,” she muttered, as she crawled out from under the table. She placed her hand over her eyes to block the sun as she scanned the crowd.

  Annie spotted Julia. She reclined semi-submerged in Mr. Wisconsin Dells’ medium sized pool that resided in a tented shaded area. She sipped a large drink, the rim spiked with chunks of fruit. Grady lay next to her in the water, his head rested on her shoulder, drifting toward her right boob. He was either napping or passed out. Annie couldn’t tell from this distance.

  Julia picked up. “Now do you understand the importance of a lip plumper?” She asked. “Probably the only reason I haven’t been debilitated by an ugly heat blister or stroke is due to its nourishing vitamins and organic emollients.”

  “I bow to your supreme knowledge of beauty products. I’ve got a situation.”

  “A situation like you scheduled two blind dates at the same time on the same night?”

  “No. That’s your kind of situation.”

  “Right. A situation like you need more appropriate pageant judge clothes?”

  Annie looked down and regarded her mom’s muumuu. It was still festive. “My clothes dilemma seems to an on-going theme. But that’s not my current situation.”

  Grady woke up or regained consciousness and ripped his head off Julia’s chest. “Balloons!” He rubbed his neck and cracked it. “Where am I? Did I dream we’re in Wisconsin?”

  “No. Annie’s got a situation,” Julia said.

  Grady rubbed his temples. “If I’m not dreaming, where’s the beer? And why am I so thirsty?”

  “Here.” Julia handed him her drink.

  Grady guzzled it and gagged. “That’s not beer!”

  “Did I say it was?”

  “Daiquiris vs. beer,” Annie said. “Can’t you just be happy you’re drinking something yummy? By-the-way, did you not hear me say I have a situation?”

  Grady grabbed Julia’s phone. “Did you not hear me say I was incredibly thirsty?”

  “I saw the daiquiri disappear down your throat like a magic act. Don’t play the victim card on me,” Annie hissed.

  “Fine,” Grady said. “Provide me with your situation’s color-coded threat level.”

  Frank looked at Annie and dropped his face into his hands. “Your friends are beyond weird. I’m not going to heaven, hell or even purgatory. I’m going nowhere. This contest is doomed. And I’ll never eat pizza again.”

  “You need to stop with the negative attitude, dude.” Annie said. “We talked about this when you were a kid. Remember in the third grade when Jimbo the bully with the enormous feet kicked you to a pulp?”

  “Yeah.” Frank flinched.

  “Where’s Jimbo now?”

  “Serving time in a minimum security facility for stealing hubcaps.”

  “What happened to Stacey? The cute girl with the freckles in the fifth grade who let you hold her hand after detention, but then dumped you for the captain of the dodge ball team?”

  “She’s on husband number four and sells time-shares in Bikersville, South Dakota.”

  “Bikersville?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “I love you, Frankie. Stop complaining. My friends and I get things done.”

  Frank nodded and hunched his muscular shoulders forward.

  “You’re talking to some pageant attention-hog while you keep me waiting?” Grady harrumphed. “It’s not a red carpet event in L.A., you know. Rudeness will not be tolerated.”

  “I’ve got a situation and it’s kind of dicey.”

  Grady frowned. “What situation? Your latest frosting recipe didn’t turn out as sweet as you planned?”

  Perfect, Annie thought. Grady was coming out of his writer’s cave, showing some backbone and getting a little riled. If she could combine Julia and Grady together they would so make her perfect Plus One.

  “It’s kind of like a code red—but for dead guys.”

  Grady leapt out of the pool, swiveling his neck as he glanced around. “Holy crap, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “Did the Packers totally blow their march to Super Bowl 2012 in the post-season NFC game with the Giants?”

  “I’m already depressed about the no-pizza thing and you bring up the suckiest Packers’ loss in recent history.” Frank held out his arms, exposing his blood drenched chest. “Shoot me again.”

  Annie turned to Frank. “Stop! You have to trust me.”

  “I heard that!” Grady said. “You advised the vic, um, I mean, the newly minted ghost—Frank Plank, ‘You have to dust me.’ It’s code dead! What can I do? I want to help. Let me help. Please, can I help?”

  “Yes. I want both yours and Julia’s help,” Annie said.

  “Julia’s too busy flirting,” Grady said.

  “Which is exactly why I want her,” Annie said. “Mr. Dells—he’s already in board shorts. How do you think he’d look in board shorts, shirtless, dripping wet and on the judges’ podium in say… five minutes?”

  Annie squinted at Mr. Dells’ booth.

  Grady leaned over the pool and whispered into Julia’s ear.

  She took the phone, turned and gave Annie two thumbs up. “Congrats on nailing the latest stiff.” Julia stifled a few giggles, reached behind her and grabbed an enormous Uzi styled squirt gun. “That’s usually my job.” She hoisted the gun to her waist. “Oh, Hubbard! I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  Grady turned with the phone next to his ear and spotted Annie. “Code Dead is on. Commencing. In one, two… ”

  Annie clicked off her phone and turned to Frank. “We just found our Han Solo. And Chewbacca.”

  “Huh?” Frank asked.

  Ten

  Wet Dreams

  Annie sidled up to the microphone, which was currently abandoned. Strange to see it sitting all by itself, all shiny and lonely, no one clutching it in their sweaty palms, refusing to let it go.

  While the Hot Guys Contest was designed to benefit charities, as well as to offer a golden opportunity for the participants, it was also a Petri dish for attention hogs.

  The female reporter from I-CHIC was interviewing a Hot Guy on camera.

  Annie spotted Stephanie. She sat on a beach towel on the ground next to the judges’ stage.

  The towel was covered with images of frolicking kittens. Stephanie held a large compact mirror in front of her face and applied a fresh coat of industrial strength powder to her cheeks.

  Annie leaned down. “Psst. I’ve got a scoop for you.”

  Stephanie jumped to her feet and pinched her false eyelashes, still drying on her right upper eyelid. “For real?”

  “More real than any of Suzy DeLovely’s last thirty orgasms,” Annie said. “But just as quick.”

  “Give me one minute.” Stephanie ran toward Mr. Richland Center’s sausage booth squeezing her eyelid. “Olaf! Put down the jerky. Need you on set.”

  Annie grabbed the microphone and thought about the mayhem she was about to create. And smiled. She gazed at the sad, anxious crowd, fli
pped the mic’s on/off-switch into the “up” position and tapped its head. “Hello, Wisconsin!”

  Her words screeched, amplified by the sound system. A couple of fans dropped to the ground and covered their ears.

  I-CHIC’S camera swiveled and honed in on Annie.

  “Sorry!” She held the mic further from her face. “Hello faithful fans of Wisconsin’s first annual Hot Guys Contest! My name is Annie Graceland. I can’t speak for you, but today’s been really tough for me.”

  More than a few people turned and eyeballed her. A few of them jeered. A couple booed. But most seemed interested in what she had to say. Annie met their looks. She wanted them to give the contest another chance.

  “What do you want?” a sunburnt guy asked.

  “I want to thank you for attending the contest,” Annie said.

  “Like that turned out so well,” the sun burnt man said.

  “Actually, it still could.”

  Olaf’s camera rolled as he and Stephanie raced up to the judge’s podium. She smoothed her hand over her coiffed do. “On three. One, two… This is Stephanie Storms reporting for WNOC. Earlier today we received the heinous news that Frank Plank, Mr. Oconomowoc, was found deceased. I’m on the scene with pageant judge, Annie Graceland, who has an announcement.”

  Annie faced the camera and nodded. “Thank you WNOC, Stephanie Storms and talented cameraman, Olaf. You all might not remember me, but I grew up in Oconomowoc. When I was a teenager, like most kids, I worked a variety of part-time jobs. I made donuts at Stuey’s Donuts-Are-Nuts.”

  “I loved the ones with the chocolate icing and sprinkles,” the sun burnt man yelled.

  “I loved the glazed.” Annie said. “My God, how could anyone with half a taste bud pick only one?”

  “Baker’s dozen!” The man blurted and plunked down on the grass, his attention now completely focused on Annie.

  “When I was a student at Oconomowoc High, I babysat a bunch of local kids. Frank Plank was one of them.”

  A few cries and moans emanated from the fans.