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

by Pamela DuMond

  Apparently he didn’t hear me, or he simply ignored me, which seemed about par for the course. But, I wasn’t one to concentrate my energy on folks who acted like they were better than me, so I kept on walking. “For God’s sakes, what’s with all the fuss back there in line?” I asked. “You’d think I just stole that complainer’s puppy, or ran off with that whiny girl’s boyfriend, or OH. MY. GOD.”

  There it was. The wall. THE wall. JUICY GIRLS was emblazoned in big, block letters on the top of a bulletin board covered wall that had scads of photos of women pinned to it. That should have been strange enough, but it became even weirder.

  A few of the ladies featured on the wall smiled and posed for the cameras. But a fair number of the shots were simply candids of women talking on their phones, working out, going to the Laundromat, getting into their cars, and walking their dogs. These people didn’t know their pictures were being taken.

  “Drinks are on the house,” the bouncer said. “What can I get for you?”

  My mind felt mushy and crispy all at the same time, like a marshmallow that had been roasted over a campfire for too long. I couldn’t think. “You decide.”

  “I need a Dewars on the rocks.” He shouted out and walked toward the bar.

  “Make that two,” Grady said.

  “Sorry, Carrot-top. You have to pay. But luck of the Irish, it’s still Happy Hour.”

  “I’m supposed to be Scottish…”

  Grady’s phone chirped. “Text from Julia. Cody’s dog is missing again. Someone posted a picture of Mozart on Twitter and said he was somewhere around here.”

  “I hope they find him,” I said.

  “Me too. Could we use a little more drama?” Grady asked. “They’re parking. I’m logging in to Venice311.”

  Like a stupid moth to a stupider flame, I approached the wall to get a better look. Penned under the photos were the women’s first names as well as commentary.

  “Helen” was folding clothes at the Laundromat in her photo. According to the info written underneath, she was twenty-eight years old, her body type was athletic, and she had recently split from her long-term boyfriend. “Tell her that you like romantic comedies, enjoy working out, and that you’ve always wanted to trek in Nepal.” Posted by Harold.

  I fumed. Harold was a dirtbag.

  “Laura” was sitting at a café absorbed in her eReader. She was a thirty-two-year-old raven-haired beauty, and her body type was described as womanly. She enjoyed TV dramas, good books, and cared for her aging father. “Ask her what she’s currently reading. Offer to take her to a movie, followed by a trip to a bookstore.” Posted by George.

  My hands balled into fists. George was a creepster.

  There was an out of focus side shot of a curvy woman standing outside on a stepstool, her hair tied back in a bandanna, a bottle of Windex in one hand as she leaned in and cleaned her large picture window. I felt so very sorry for Helen and Laura, and the rest of those girls, and my blood started to boil. This was embarrassing. This was bordering on harassment. This was… Oh crap, I was the curvy woman cleaning the window.

  I reached up, and touched my picture.

  The snapshot was taken from outside my apartment as I cleaned my living room window. Up close, you could vaguely see Theodore staring out from the inside. The caption read, “Annie. Late thirty-something. Still getting divorced. (Like seriously, how long can this divorce take?) Former baker. Loves cupcakes and cats. Body type: Curvy. Pickup tips: Ask her about her cat.” Posted by Anthony.

  I gasped, but I had no words. Speak of the devil and his twin brother, Anthony and Derrick walked through crowds of partiers and headed toward the mahogany bar.

  “I’m like royalty here,” Anthony said. “What’s your poison? I’m buying.”

  “Breathe, Annie. You need to breathe. Reinforcements are on their way. Cody and Julia are right around the corner.” Grady swiveled. “Where’s that single malt scotch?”

  Maybe I was hallucinating. Maybe, like Dorothy in Oz, I’d fallen into a different world. My skin felt numb and tingly, and my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

  Hildy had joined John Fartier at his four-top. Hildy was here. Maybe I could find out where Theodore was. I had to pull it together. I had to summon the energy to confront that awful woman.

  Mr. Fartier rifled through a black, shiny briefcase on the table in front of them. I thought Hildy had killed Anthony, but maybe they were in it together. Like seriously, who wouldn’t have wanted to kill Anthony Spiggottini?

  Anthony paused in front of his former employer and his hand flew to his chest. “That’s my briefcase,” he said. “The briefcase with all my important documents. The briefcase that was stolen.” He looked down at his blood-soaked chest. “I’m bleeding. Why am I bleeding?”

  I faced Anthony Spiggottini, heat rising off me like a mirage at noon on a blistering desert day. “You took that picture of me and you put it up there.”

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” the bouncer said. “We have a bona fide celebrity in our midst tonight.”

  “Is Arnold here?” A woman asked.

  “No, it’s not Arnold. He’s busy filming another Rocky movie,” a man said.

  “That’s Sly,” a guy dressed up as a lobster said.

  “You low-life, disgusting human being,” I said. “You squirmy, POS, slug of a man.”

  Somewhere in the midst of all my rage, John Fartier locked eyes with me.

  “I don’t understand why Mr. Fartier has my briefcase,” Anthony said. “Wait a minute. Wait just one darn minute. Hildy’s here. Of course, she’s here. Where Mr. Fartier goes, Hildy follows. I wonder if Hildy stole my car? I wonder if Hildy stole my briefcase?”

  “You’re a despicable human being.” I strode toward Anthony and punched my fist into the palm of my other hand.

  “We haven’t even sent out notices yet,” John Fartier said, and I stopped in my tracks.

  “John,” Hildy leaned toward him. “You don’t need to concern yourself about this. I can handle this for you. She’s just some random drunk girl in a bar.”

  “She’s not just a random girl,” the bouncer said. “She’s on the wall. In fact, Mr. Fartier, your employee, Anthony Spiggottini put her up there. She’s Annie Graceland, and one of our favorites. Here you go, Miss Graceland. A Double Dewars on the rocks.”

  “Thank you.” I accepted the drink, took a gulp, and grimaced.

  “Wait a minute, wait a darn minute,” Anthony said. “This finally makes sense. All the closed-door meetings without me. All the whispers in Mr. Fartier’s office whenever I’d walk in unexpectedly. I thought you wanted me to track down the historical documents to preserve the apartment complexes in the 1800 block in Venice.”

  “What notices?” I asked. “What are you talking about Mr. Fartier?”

  “The notices about relocating. You’re on a month-to-month, and while we will be following the letter of the law, we will also be exercising our right to terminate your residency.” He waved his hand at me. “I’m going to let my right hand man handle this. Hildy?”

  “Right hand woman, John.” Hildy stood up, pushed her chair back, and faced me.

  “I thought you were just going to upgrade the complexes, Mr. Fartier,” Anthony said. “Preserve the history, the heritage. You can’t knock those buildings down. Venice will lose its charm. Venice will become like a cheap amusement park. Not the multi-cultural, ethnic, funky, charming community that it’s been all these years.”

  I was torn between wanting to see what was in that briefcase and smacking the crap out of Hildy Crawford. I edged closer to their table.

  “You’re Annie Graceland?” Hildy asked. “I was picturing someone younger and hipper. Don’t take one step closer to Mr. Fartier. I’ll tell the cops you were threatening him. You’ll be arrested. You’ll be evicted from your apartment for harassing the landlord. There are landlord rights as well as tenants’ you know.”

  Tenants’ rights, historical papers, and apartment build
ings being torn down, and suddenly. SUDDENLY. It all began to make sense, and clunked together, like key pieces in a big jigsaw puzzle.

  John Fartier, one of the biggest slumlords in Venice, had instructed his “right hand man,” Anthony Spiggottini, to procure the legal documents and the historical papers that could allow him to raze our buildings to make way for something newer and much more lucrative.

  But Anthony Spiggottini had stumbled across historical evidence that would stop his boss’s lucrative plans. Which meant that Anthony stood in the way of progress. And progress equaled money. Big money. Someone killed Spiggottini, stole his briefcase, and I’d lay dollars to donuts had destroyed the evidence. As much as I hated Anthony Spiggottini for being an asshat, violating my privacy, and marginalizing me by pinning my information to a stupid wall, in a strange way, he actually stood for something decent. Anthony Spiggottini was more than just your average slimeball. And I couldn’t hate him as much as I wanted to—which pained me.

  “Annie!” Julia hollered from across the crowded bar. “We’re here! Cody’s going out back to look for Mozart.”

  John Fartier and Hildy Crawford were, right in front of me, in spitting distance. One of them was Anthony’s killer. But I had no way to prove it. So I decided to get a little confrontational.

  Hopefully, Raphael would learn to live with that.

  Chapter 30

  Anything’s Possible

  Theodore (The Cat)

  “WE’VE BEEN SPOTTED,” Mary said. “Scram!”

  Mozart and I jumped and bolted toward the store next to the bar and hid behind the dumpster.

  A guy with muscular arms that bulged out of his T-shirt exited the bar, lit a cigarette, and inhaled deeply. A rat popped his head out from underneath the trash bin, took one look at the man, and skittered across the alley.

  “We’re all going to die! We’re all going to die!” I screamed.

  Mary tackled me. “Be quiet,” she growled. “Or Hildy will find you and dress you up in a Halloween costume. You’ll be completely embarrassed.”

  The painful memories bubbled up, and I fought back, growling and swatting at her. “Been there. Done that. It will never happen again.”

  But she wouldn’t let up. We flipped, spatting and clawing, and the fur flew, well, at least mine did, until Mary got me in a headlock.

  “Hildy will find you and dress you in a festive reindeer sweater,” she said. “Then she’ll take a photograph, put it on a holiday card with a greeting and send it to all her friends. That kind of humiliation cuts deeper. You’ll never live it down.”

  “No!” I screamed.

  “Stop your cat fight!” Mozart barked. “You guys are scaring me.”

  I started shaking. Mary swiped me across my face and I tore a few feet away, crouched halfway behind the dumpster, and hissed. “I have no idea why I conjured you from the magic mirror. You’re mean, and spiteful, and I don’t know why you’re even here.”

  “Maybe you didn’t conjure me from the magic mirror,” she said. “Maybe I was in the apartment before that night.”

  “That’s not possible,” I said.

  “Whoa!” Mozart said. “I have dreams where I’m back in Chicago chasing rabbits down Michigan Avenue. Anything’s possible.”

  “Mozart!” a man hollered nearby. “Mozart!”

  The dog whip turned and looked around. “That’s Cody,” he said. “That’s my Cody!”

  The guy stubbed out his cigarette. “You can’t leave through the back door, man.”

  “But, I think my dog’s back there,” Cody said.

  “Sorry, dude. Bar policy,” he said. “Gotta leave through the front.” He blocked the exit door.

  Mozart barked and raced toward the bar.

  Chapter 31

  Off the Clock

  Annie

  I TURNED AND FACED HILDY. “I heard you recently rescued a Himalayan-mix cat named Theodore.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She blinked. “My cat’s name is Fluffy.”

  “You lie through your capped teeth,” I said. “No one names a cat Fluffy unless they’re six-years-old. You rescued Theodore, and then selfishly decided to keep him.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she said.

  “Can’t get involved in altercations. Must run,” Mr. Fartier said and pushed back from the table.

  “Oh really.” I whipped out my cell phone, hit Facebook, and pulled Fit-Pro Camp’s page. “Is that your cat, ‘Fluffy’, dressed in a Halloween outfit?”

  “Why yes it is.”

  “Funny,” I said and scrolled to my Facebook feed. “There’s a picture of my cat, Theodore wearing his X-Files costume. I want my cat back, Ms. Crawford. And I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  When there was a scuffling sound, a dog barked at the top of his lungs, and pushed through the crowd.

  “Mozart!” Cody yelled.

  “Holy crap!” The bouncer said. “There’s a cat on top of the bar.”

  “Meow-rl.”

  It was Theodore! My beloved Theodore was on top of the bar expertly weaving his way around the cocktail glasses. Oops, I take that back, he just knocked one over.

  “Stupid cat. You ruined my Halloween costume!” the guy mopped up his lobster outfit with a bar rag. “Wait a minute, you look just like that beast that upchucked all over my convertible…”

  “Theodore!” Hildy and I yelled at the same time.

  I glared at her.

  “He has a better life with me,” she said. “You’re the one who let him out to begin with. What kind of cat mother are you?”

  Cody and Mozart hustled through the crowd toward me.

  John Fartier spotted the dog and stopped in his tracks. He pulled something from his pocket, leaned forward, and waved it in front of him. “Here puppy, puppy.”

  I felt my neck grow tight and sore. My throat was closing off. It felt like someone was strangling me.

  Anthony clutched his throat with both hands and gasped for air, as his eyes practically bulged out of his head.

  This was an empathic hit. It wasn’t my pain; it was Anthony’s. John Fartier wanted the leash because John had used it to strangle Anthony.

  Mozart eyed the slumlord. The Shepherd’s ears swiveled back, the hair raised on the back of his neck, and he growled.

  “Hey buddy,” Cody said. “What’s up?”

  “What’s up is that Mr. Fartier wants the lead that’s clipped to Mozart’s collar,” I said. “Because that’s what Mr. Fartier used to strangle Anthony Spiggottini before he shot him.”

  Mr. Fartier blanched as white as Anthony’s ghostly face. “My right hand man will handle this.” He turned and made his way through the crowd.

  Hildy rolled her eyes. “I’m not a man, John. We’ve had this conversation before. I do believe I’m off the clock.” She squeezed through the crowd toward Theodore.

  “Stop that guy!” I hollered as I pushed my way toward the bar, but the party was in full swing, and no one paid me any attention.

  Hildy picked up my cat, plopped him over the crook of her arm, and headed for the door.

  “Crap,” I said. “Won’t anyone help?”

  Suddenly, John Fartier began squirming like he’d been hit with a bad case of fleas. He wriggled, he clawed at his back, dropped his briefcase, and slapped his own face. “Get it off me! Get the damn cat off me!”

  Mozart’s ears perked up, he raced over, jumped on John, knocked him to the ground, and growled.

  I caught up with Hildy and tapped her on the shoulder. “Not so fast, Miss Crawford. I might not be a perfect cat mother, but I’m the best cat mother that Theodore von Pumpernickle will ever have.” I tossed my drink in her face, snatched my fur baby, cradled him in my arms, and kissed his fuzzy head.

  And then I burst into tears. “I love you Theodore von Pumpernickle. It’s time to go home.”

  Chapter 32

  Attached

  Mary (The Spirit Cat)

  YES, I jumped
on that arrogant man’s shoulders, and yes I concentrated really hard in order to dig my claws in. I wasn’t about to let some entitled, wealthy, business magnate get away with murder again. I might not have been able to bring Kathleen’s killer to justice, but helping Annie, Theodore, and even Mozart the pooch gave me a thrill.

  I should probably go back to being invisible, and just letting the people and animals that lived in present day Venice, California go about their business. They were after all, so very caught up with their lives, and their loves, work, and leisure time.

  But, call me crazy, getting out and about again was kind of fun.

  I just might stick around for a while.

  Chapter 33

  Happy Haunted Halloween

  Annie

  I MISSED the big Halloween bash on Main Street in Santa Monica. Instead, assisted by Anthony, I answered a zillion police questions.

  Raphael showed up looking flustered. “I thought we agreed you were going to call me before this escalated.”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t know it was going to escalate.”

  An hour or so later, I took Theodore home, wiped him down with a wet towel, fed him the good stuff, and gave him a little nip. We snuggled on the couch. When I got up to get an extra blanket from my closet, I found an old, yellowed envelope on the floor. It appeared to have dropped out of a grate in the ceiling.

  I sat on the couch, had a glass of wine, and opened it. Got an eyeful. Called Raphael again.

  The next night, my boyfriend knocked on my door to pick me up for my neighborhood Halloween party. And shocker, he was even wearing a costume.

  Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” played in the background as we noshed on some appetizers at a McMansion that was decorated like a fancy, albeit block-shaped haunted house. Raphael was brave and sampled the vegan pizza. I was tired of throwing caution to the wind and stuck with something more familiar: mini frankfurters with tiny buns. They were so cute and delicious!

  “We brought in John Fartier and Hildy Crawford for questioning in the murder of Anthony Spiggottini,” Raphael, the cutest Tinman in the entire world, said.