Cupcakes, Bats, and Scare-dy Cats (An Annie Graceland Cozy Mystery Book 6)

by Pamela DuMond

  Chapter 17

  Bewitched

  Annie

  “I’M WALKING around like a normal person, going to restaurants like a normal person, and wearing clothes like a normal person. I cannot be dead,” Anthony Spiggottini said as we exited The Omelet Parlor on Main Street.

  “You’re dressed like Uncle Fester from The Munsters, and you haven’t eaten a bite all day.”

  “I’m dieting,” he huffed.

  “As much as I hate to tell you this, for the bazillionth-y time, you’re dead.” I waved to Julia and Grady who had crossed the street. “Thanks for babysitting my dead guys while I showered! Talk later, okay? Love you.” I threw them kisses.

  “I am not deceased!” Anthony stomped his foot. “You are playing a cruel joke on me simply because we had carnal relations last night.”

  “Correction.” I grabbed a “Lost Cat” flier from my tote, and stapled it onto an electrical pole. “I dressed up as a bruja, went to a Halloween party, and had carnitas last night.”

  “Might I add you looked fetching, Cupcake,” Derrick said. “Don’t cool cats generally wander back on their own after they’ve been out catting around? I know I always did.”

  “My Theodore does not,” I finger quoted, “‘cat around.’ Despite what happened last night, I’m a good cat mother. I make him healthy meals, not junk food, he has a water bowl with a running fountain to encourage kidney health, and I give him a weekly massage with a little chiropractic care to keep him limber.”

  “Did you chip him?” Derrick asked.

  “He came with a chip,” I said.

  “Did you register the paperwork?”

  I slapped my hand against my forehead. “Oh, crap, I can’t remember if I registered the paperwork.” A ‘mug shot’ of my beautiful Theodore stared back at me from the pole. “I will hunt him down, and I will find him, if it’s the last thing I do,” I said.

  “Baking soda, baguettes, and brujas. You, and all your fancy culinary terminology, Graceland,” Anthony said. “You’re always trying to impress people with your advanced vocabulary.”

  “The word’s not that fancy and it doesn’t reference baking.” I marched a few yards down the street and taped another Missing Cat Flier to a stop sign. “‘Bruja’ is the Spanish word for witch, or a witch healer.”

  “I knew that. Besides, you’re a cat-lady, so it’s obvious.”

  “Excuse me?” I bristled. “I sincerely hope you’re not talking about those stupid wives’ tales regarding witches and their cats, because I am sick and tired of hearing about that degrading stuff. For God’s sakes, how in the heck did men even manage to insult women who had cats in the olden days?”

  “They burned them at the stake.” He smirked.

  A pang of jealously stabbed at my heart. It was totally not fair that someone else killed Anthony Spiggottini.

  “But you wouldn’t know that much about history. I, on the other hand, am a member in good standing of The Venice Historical Society. Besides, it’s perfectly obvious that after our time together last night, you have bewitched me.” Anthony smiled and batted his glitter-encrusted lashes. “Which is why you’re telling tall tales about me being deceased.”

  I stopped in my tracks and glared at him. “One. We had no special time together last night, or ever. Two. You’re the last person in the world I would bewitch. I would rather be-runover, or be-mutilated, or be beheaded than bewitch you. Three. If I’m lying, explain why John Fartier said you were dead, as well as the reason there is a metrosexual guy following us around who’s wearing nothing but a silver thong.”

  “Let me remind you,” Derrick said, “that my thong is designer. It’s not every day a famous self-help author volunteers his time to help you, Cupcake, solve some average shmoe’s murder, and then help you, the shmoe, pass to the Afterlife.”

  “Shmoe?” Anthony asked. “I am not a shmoe. Who is this guy?” He jerked his thumb in Derrick’s direction.

  “I am Dr. Derrick Fuller, the beloved self-help author of the bestselling I Promise book series.”

  Anthony frowned. “I think I read one of those books. Why are you still wearing your Halloween costume?”

  Derrick sighed. “Empower yourself, Anthony. Instead of asking me, which is none of your business, ask yourself why you’re still wearing your Halloween costume. Then, what is dark and confusing shall become clear.”

  “It’s pretty clear that I shacked up with the baker chick,” he said. “What’s your excuse?”

  “We did not shack up,” I said.

  “You going to believe her, or are you going to believe me?” Anthony swiped his hand across his slicked hair and smiled through his fake incisors.

  “Uh…” Derrick said as his glance ping-ponged between the two of us.

  My head started to throb like I’d walked into the pole. I rubbed my temple with the heel of my hand. “The two of you need to go somewhere and talk privately,” I said. “I need to hunt down my cat, and I don’t have time to tackle Anthony’s murder today. Sorry.” I taped Theodore’s mug shot to the No Parking sign as a pair of body-builder guys in workout gear strode toward me.

  “Again with the dead thing,” Anthony said. “Methinks you doth protest too much.”

  “Methinks you’re still dead,” I said.

  He frowned.

  “Yo, Chickie-doo-dah,” the blonde muscle guy said between vigorous chews of his gum. “My name’s Meat.”

  “Hey, Meat.” I plucked a bottle of Advil from my purse, popped the top, shook out two tablets, and downed them. “My name’s Annie, not Chickie.”

  “That’s what he calls every cute girl.” His equally beefy but brunette friend discreetly twirled his finger next to his ear. “Ever since the dumbbell fell on his head.”

  “A-ha!” My headache magically disappeared and I spit out the tablet. It was simply another stupid empathic hit. “Ouch. That must have hurt.”

  “I got over it. You look familiar, Chickie. You workout at Silver’s Gym?” Meat blew a pink bubble and popped it.

  Anthony ducked. “Gunshot!” He reached for his imaginary phone and punched in numbers. “911! I’d like to report gunfire on Hampton Court—”

  “No,” I shook my head.

  “I could swear I’ve seen you there before,” Meat said.

  “Silver’s a little out of my league.” I waved a flier in front of his face. “Have you spotted this cat anywhere around here?”

  He peered at it and then at me. “Nah, but I’ve definitely seen you before. I remember—you were on the wall at the Thursday night meet and greet.”

  “Right…” I said and winked at his friend. “Of course I was.”

  “Oh. Hmm.” Anthony gazed at his feet. “Must get going. Hey, Prince Philip, are you coming with me?”

  Derrick frowned. “My name is Dr. Derrick Fuller. I am the bestselling, beloved auth—”

  “Just, go.” I flicked my fingers at him.

  Derrick raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Anthony. I will be accompanying you.”

  “What’s the meet and greet?” I asked.

  “Open invite at the Juiced Bar on Main Street every Thursday night. We gather, share body-building tips, and manly stuff.”

  “Manly stuff?” I asked.

  “Hair removal tips, the best new spray tans, cutting-edge ways to bulk up, add definition, and bonus—a list of the new, available hot chicks in the neighborhood.”

  “I’m part Italian on my dad’s side, so I’d be into the hair removal tips,” I said. “Do you have any recommendations for tweezers? I spent an hour at CVS Pharmacy the other day, looking at every display on the wall.”

  “No. I definitely saw you on the wall at the Juiced. Nice to meet and greet you in person. It’s our Halloween party this week. Show up and break a few hearts, why don’t you?” He popped another bubble, saluted me, and meandered toward the gym’s entrance.

  I stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Pleasure spending time with you, Graceland
,” Anthony said. “Must get back to the grind.” He placed his invisible phone next to his mouth, “I’ll call you!” He strode off, his Dracula cape motionless in spite of the breeze.

  “Wait a minute!” I said. “Everyone’s leaving?”

  Derrick shrugged. “You said you needed time to look for your cat.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Besides, I fear one too many sweets have taken up residence on your waistline, Cupcake. It wouldn’t hurt for you to take a tour of the local gym, maybe even work out a little.”

  I looked at my waist, and to my horror, my tummy did appear a little bigger. “It’s just water weight.”

  “Right,” Derrick said. “Empower yourself, Graceland.”

  Chapter 18

  Suspect the Doodle

  Theodore (The Cat)

  A LARGE BIN perched outside an enormous, squat building surrounded by a chain link fence. My stomach rumbled ominously, my legs felt weak, and I feared that I was entering the second stage of starvation. I spotted the remains of a curdled drink, a fly-encrusted tuna sandwich, and some cheese doodles lying on the pavement. I cautiously made my way toward the abandoned delicacies and sniffed.

  You’re probably wondering why a cat of my status even knows about cheese doodles. On occasion, Annie lets me lick one while she’s busy watching TV and consuming half the bag. While I hate to spread rumors, I suspect the doodle is not even made of real cheese.

  “While the food looks delicious, I don’t approve of this restaurant, Mary,” I said. “I doubt there’s anything healthy for a cat to eat here, unless said cat wants to be sicker than a dog in the near future.”

  “This isn’t a restaurant. It’s Silver’s Gym. I didn’t bring you here to look for food,” she said. “I brought you here to look for clues.”

  My stomach gurgled, and the remains of the smoothie beckoned me. “Clues?” I leaned down and licked the concoction.

  Mary pounced on my head, I jumped a few feet in the air, and shook her off me. But by the time I hit the ground, she was already yards away, sitting next to the building, and grooming her nails. “Don’t you touch that stuff!” she said. “You want to get cooties?”

  I bristled. “You mean catties?” I reminded myself to act cool—like I meant to spazz out, like I’d just been hit by a stray bolt of lightning.

  “Cooties, you dork. Come over here.” She sashayed in front of me, her voluptuous tail undulating first left, right, and then left again.

  A car pulled into the parking lot, nearly missed running over my fluffy paws, and reminded me of all the dangers I faced since leaving home. I glared at the driver, and then trotted toward Mary. “Where are we going?” I frowned as the vehicle parked on top of my smoothie.

  “See that hole in the fence?” She asked.

  “The one that isn’t even big enough for a mouse?”

  “The one that’s big enough for a fleet of mice. They’re not going to let us walk in the front door,” Mary said. “This place isn’t feline friendly. We’re sneaking in the back way. Hurry up.”

  The music grew louder and the clanging sounds more cacophonous as we approached the building. I spotted half-naked people inside grunting, sweating, and talking far too loudly as they moved heavy equipment. Perhaps it was a disco, or a warehouse for a home improvement superstore. Or, maybe, it was the headquarters for a cult.

  “I see it,” I meowed, “but I’m not entering this hellhole with all the unsanitary people.”

  “I thought you were the kind of cat who takes a risk.” She stepped through the gap effortlessly, circled, and peered at me from the opposite side. “The kind of feline who summons spirits from the other world. A cool cat that fearlessly whips through a couple of lives. But no, you’re just a big, old scare-dy cat.”

  I puffed out my coat, made myself as large as possible, and hissed. “Theodore von Pumpernickle is not a scare-dy cat! Just because I conjured you from the magic mirror in honor of whatever holiday it is that humans eat too much candy, and dress up strangely, doesn’t give you the right to boss me around.”

  She blinked, then licked her paw, and groomed her ear. “Go home, Scare-dy Cat. I know you miss your mom, your special fixings wet cat food, and late afternoon re-runs of The X Files.”

  My breath caught in my throat. How did she know about The X Files?

  “Of course I miss my mom…I mean…I do not miss my Mom.” I wished Annie were here to pick me up, snuggle me, and rescue me from this ill-tempered spirit cat. Suddenly, just for a second, I could swear I heard her calling my name. My ears perked up, I glanced around, and strained to make out her sweet voice.

  “Theodore von Pumpernickle. If I catch you eating the trash around this germ-infested place, I’m going to kill you!”

  “Oh, look.” Mary sniffed. “I just spotted a clue. No worries. I’ll investigate without you. Stay outside and nose around more garbage. Maybe you’ll find a mouse in there for lunch if you’re lucky.” She turned tail and wandered off into the dark, loud, moist abyss.

  “Rodents?” I shrieked and raced toward the hole in the fence. “Hang on! Wait for me. I’m right behind you!”

  Chapter 19

  Weekend Warriors

  Annie

  “AND SO MUCH for the tour of the Ladies’ Locker Room. Our cleaning staff works twenty-four hours a day maintaining the pristine conditions of Silver’s Gym. This place is so clean, you could practically eat off the floor,” the very buff female receptionist said.

  I glanced at her nametag and pretended to be interested in whatever she was yakking about. “Gorgeous. Very nice. Thanks, Glenda.”

  I don’t know why I walked inside the place. Maybe it was Derrick’s derogatory jab about my stomach. Maybe it was to track down further information about the ‘meet and greet’ commentary. Maybe it was because I saw Hildy, John Fartier’s new assistant, lugging a black, shiny briefcase that looked exactly like Anthony’s from the trunk of her car, and carry it through a doorway fifty yards from the gym’s entrance.

  “As you can see,” Glenda gestured to rows of shiny exercise machines, “Silver’s Gym has the newest, state-of-the-art equipment. Our hours are long and flexible, our trainers are board certified, and all the top sports teams frequent Silver’s when they play in Los Angeles.”

  “Including the Packers?” I picked up a dumbbell, thrust it over my head like I was an Olympic athlete, but cringed when my back spasmed.

  “Especially the Packers,” she said.

  I dropped the weight onto the ground. Maybe I really should start going to the gym. “What’s that room over there?” I pointed to a door that appeared to lead to the area Hildy had entered. “Another exercise studio?”

  “No, that’s Fit-Pro Camp. Hildy Crawford trains some of the top athletes during their off-seasons.”

  “Oh,” I said. “What if I wanted to train there?”

  “They don’t take on a lot of weekend warriors.”

  I glanced up and immediately longed for a tissue to wipe the condescension that was thick as a toddler’s snot off Glenda’s face. Instead, I walked toward the door, and pulled on the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. “Name sounds familiar. Hildy Crawford, the supermodel?” I smushed my nose against the glass, tried to peer inside, and bought myself some time. “I did a little modeling in my youth. I could swear we ran into each other from time to time.”

  “You’re thinking of Cindy Crawford. No relation to Hildy. Besides, double chin up, Ms. Graceland; there’s no sense pining for the old days.” She tugged on my arm. “Come with me, I’ll show you our new cross-training area. That’s a great place to start. You could even sneak in a workout today. My treat.”

  I allowed her to tear me away. “Do you think any of the Green Bay Packers train with Hildy during the off season?”

  “Who wouldn’t want to train with Hildy?” she said. “Oh look. Over there in the far right corner—we just got in the newest Z1000 rowing and stepping machine. You can plug into Facebook while you’re do
ing cardio.”

  “God forbid I miss a second of those updates. I wouldn’t want to turn to stone.” Suddenly, through the thumping of the music, the clanging of the weights, the whirring of the treadmills, and the folks chattering, I heard a familiar sound. A distinctive “Meow-rl,” penetrated the air. That cry could only belong to one cat. My cat. Theodore von Pumpernickle.

  I whip turned and saw his rotund, grimy self, checking out the garbage in the parking lot. Tears flooded my eyes, I threw a kiss to the heavens, and thanked God he was alive.

  “Theodore von Pumpernickle!” I hollered. “If I catch you eating the trash around this germ-infested place, I’m going to kill you.” I pushed through the crowd toward the fence. “Stay put. Your mother loves you.”

  A guy in spandex shorts, that were seriously way too tight, checked me out and grunted. “Hey, aren’t you on the wall at The Juiced Bar?”

  My eyes dropped from his face down to his clingy shorts where I spotted his own personal meet and greet package. “No,” I said.

  A girl with boob implants bigger than my head regarded me, sniffed, and returned to her bicep curls. “You guys, your beauty tips, and your obsession with the wall. I’m sick of hearing about it.”

  I nodded and couldn’t help but wonder how I would look with Double Gs. “I’m siding with Booby. I meant—Blondie.”

  “At least someone agrees with me,” she said.

  “Meow-rl.”

  “Talk later. Must run.” I tore myself away from the circus and skirted around a few elliptical machines. I tripped over some dumbbells scattered across the floor, fell face forward, and lucky for me, caught myself on my elbows. “Theodore, don’t you move a muscle.”

  A guy with knobby knees frowned at me.

  “I didn’t mean you,” I said. “I’m talking to my cat.”

  “Right.” He sighed dejectedly and wandered off.

  “Ms. Graceland.” Glenda caught up with me. “Legally you’re not allowed to tour the gym’s facilities unattended. It’s a liability. Not that we’re liable, mind you, should any injury or malfeasance happen on the premises, because you read and signed the release form.”