by PamelaDuMond
“Oh, please. I’ve been separated for what, four days?”
“Four days times twenty-four hours per day with Detective Rafe wouldn’t kill me. Hey, picture four days with him almost naked on a tropical beach, holding two mojitos. I’d call that the perfect va-ca park and fly. Truth or dare?” Julia asked.
“I’ve always known you were evil. Truth.”
“When’s the last time you talked to Mike?”
“I’m taking a little va-ca from Mike.” Annie knew Julia’s challenge was too easy and that she was being set-up.
“Good for you,” Julia said. “Unfortunately, Mike won’t stop calling me, Grady, your mom and begging us to give him your new number as well as pass along his whiny ‘I need to talk to Annie,’ messages. Therefore we, the primary members of your posse, aren’t getting any, “va-ca”. So I ask you Annie, when’s the last time you and Mike had sex?”
“Whoa,” Grady said and grabbed his notebook from his backpack. He flipped it open and scribbled furiously.
Annie looked away. “He was busy. I was busy.”
“Truth,” Julia pushed.
“Fine. Four months. Does that make you happy? Four months. But he promised me a baby. He promised me…”
“Stop!” Grady said. “Let’s watch Larry, enjoy our munchies and chill.”
“For now.” Julia sniffed. “I don’t think Mike’s going to be on Larry. Not a big enough fish. Pass the chips, dip and the Vicodyn.”
Grady handed Julia the chips, dip and the pill bottle. “I agree. He’s such a loser. Larry only interviews losers if they are either actively or recently involved with the debacle du jour.”
Annie poked the pointy end of the crutch repetitively into Julia’s back. “Hello? Why am I sitting here with a messed up ankle and no munchies?”
Julia passed the guac and chips to Annie. “You want the Vicodyn?”
Teddy sniffed the air and meandered towards Annie and the guac.
“No. It makes me loopy and kills my tum. Enjoy your buzz. You’ll be clutching your stomachs and belching acid tomorrow.”
“Why didn’t you ask Detective Muy Caliente to stay and protect you? Or something,” Julia asked.
“From what? My china? Caliente’s obviously a busy man with a consuming job. I highly doubt he has the time or inclination to hang out with me, Ms. Damaged Goods.”
“No!” Julia and Grady yelled in unison as they threw chips at her.
She tossed them back. Unfortunately, Teddy got caught in the middle of the chip volley and was pelted. One had a little sour cream on it and stuck on top of his head like a tiny yamulka as he screeched out of the living room.
“You do not call yourself damaged goods,” Julia said.
“Agreed,” Grady said. “However. Julia, once again, you’re hogging the drugs. I see a pattern.”
Julia threw the Vicodyn bottle at Grady and it bounced off his chest.
He picked it off the ground and popped the childproof top open with one hand. “Thank you, Darlin,” he said. “You’re just shell shocked right now, Annie. Sometimes big alpha protective men like Caliente actually like fragile cute chicks.”
“Yes, he’s the cover boy for a bodice ripper. But no thanks. Besides, Julia needs to be my lawyer should Caliente finger me for a crime I would have loved to commit, but unfortunately didn’t.”
“I’m not touching the ‘finger’ comment,” Julia said and turned to Grady. “If the United Film Program Scholarship is your goal, you’d better start writing that thing in script format. I hear they require a completed script and don’t accept notes.”
“You’d think the Vicodyn would chill you. But it doesn’t. Why?” Grady asked. “Are you like a Vicodyn vampire or something?”
“It’s the south, baby,” Julia replied. “We learn how to deal with all sorts of mind altering things growing up in the south.”
Corpse Crispy Treats
Description: To really inspire people with this recipe, it is a good idea to purchase a gingerbread man baking cutout. After you’ve concocted your delicious treat, you can cut Mr. Corpse Crispy using several authentic, autopsy-like, traditional post-mortem surgical procedures. (Watch CSI for pointers.) Hand out body parts to your guests and/or birthday party kids. You can have a party game where each kid must guess the body part they are devouring. Original! Entertaining!
Appropriate Occasions: When Pin the Tail on the Donkey is considered boring. When trying to explain to young children what happens to some bodies after death. When someone had been really mean to you and you need to do something revengeful that won’t land you in jail.
Best Served With: Gloating: “Hah-hah. I won ’cause you died before I did.”
EIGHT
Funeral Fritters
Ten days later, on February twenty-seventh, at two p.m., Annie pulled her dusty old Cabrio into the driveway of the famous Yogi Meditation Shrine. A prominently displayed sign at the entrance stated, “No Trespassing – Bad Karma.”
Annie’s hair was stuffed under a ball cap, and she was wearing large dark sunglasses. Grady, in a cowboy hat, equally large sunglasses and a “Sexyback” t-shirt slumped in her passenger seat, officially riding shotgun. He pointed at the second sign and read aloud, “Our monks (the guys wearing brown and orange robes) have taken vows of silence & abstinence (from junk food.) Please don’t talk to, or feed them. Namaste.”
Annie had been to the shrine once before. It was heavenly. The Yogi Meditation Shrine was a drop dead gorgeous cross between an arboretum and a place of pilgrimage and worship, located on ten prime acres situated about a mile east of the Pacific Ocean. Fifty years ago, a sage eastern Indian guru visited California, fell in love with the land and convinced his followers to purchase this property. Throughout the years, a small pond was created from a dredged marsh. The surrounding lush gardens were filled with indigenous as well as exotic flowers and trees. A cedar walking path rambled around the lake. Every ten yards or so was an altar or a park bench for someone to sit on. That person could be still and meditate, ruminate, or simply remind herself why she shouldn’t chuck it all and jump in the pond and drown. It was a veritable Garden of Eden. A pinch of Gandhi’s ashes was literally enshrined here. The Yogi Meditation Shrine’s guest book included signatures from Jimmy Carter, Ronald Regan, the First Bush, Clinton, and Nelson Mandela. Other visitor signatures included the Barbras (Walters, Streisand…), Rosie, Ellen, Deepak, tons of activist celebs and a list of people whose good intentions seemed to go on, forever.
There was one car in front of Annie’s at the guard’s station set up for Derrick Fuller’s memorial service. A woman with three chins stuck her sixty something overly coiffed helmet hair head out of the driver’s window of her spit polished Cadillac. “Bootsy and Bob Bauerfeld from Family Values Groceries, party of two.”
The event parking organizer, a beefy red-faced guy dressed in a cheap sweat stained suit, checked his clipboard.
This gave Annie a little time to shuffle through a file with a hundred or so newspaper clips and printed stuff from the Internet. All the copy was about Dr. Derrick Fuller. Yes, he was dead. His expedited autopsy confirmed cyanide poisoning. The ongoing investigation said most probably, homicide. There were several key suspects as well as persons of interest. She held a newspaper clipping that read, “Dr. Derrick Fuller’s memorial service at three p.m. at the Yogi Shrine. You must call the number at the bottom to confirm. Please arrive early, as this event might be over-booked.”
The organizer waved Bootsy and Bob’s car into the parking lot and motioned Annie to pull forward. “Name?” he asked.
“Annie Rose Graceland. Party of two.”
The organizer checked under the E through H pages on his clipboard. Shook his head. “No Graceland.”
“Try Piccolino.”
The organizer flipped to the M through P section. “I’m sorry, you’re not on the guest list. Please exit the premises.”
Annie pulled out the newspaper article with the number and showed it to the organi
zer. “But I called the number and confirmed my reservation.”
“Just because you called the number doesn’t mean you were invited,” he said.
“Annie, we don’t need to actually be here,” Grady said. “Let’s check out this whole scene on Fox News tonight.”
“I didn’t spend a week researching two hundred gag-me Dr. Derrick web sites, as well as making a hundred fake phone calls just to let this opportunity vanish,” she whispered. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. She felt… ornery.
“I said, turn around and exit the premises,” the organizer insisted.
“No,” Annie replied.
“Yes,” the organizer retorted and clapped his hands in the air. Six valet guys dressed like penguins materialized around him. They squeaked and flapped their arms.
“Just do what the sweaty guy says,” Grady whispered.
She eyed Grady suspiciously. “You’re overly nervous. Something you need to tell me?” She reached one hand out to touch his arm but he leaned as far away from her against the passenger car door.
“Remember, Annie - losing the battle doesn’t cost you the war.”
“No wars, Grady. I vibrate peace. Anything you want to share before I vibrate this guy’s piece? Only for a little bit, promise.” Annie asked.
“No,” Grady said.
“Look lady. Leave now or I will call for additional back-up,” the organizer said.
“I’m sorry. That’s not possible,” Annie looked in the rearview mirror. Five limos and a Benz had pulled in line behind her. Perfect. She smiled at the organizer and widened her eyes innocently. “Ohmygod. The limo behind me. Is that Oprah?”
The organizer whip-turned and squinted at the limo’s tinted windows.
Annie seized the opportunity. She shut off her engine and stuffed her car key down her shirt into her bra.
Bootsy, wearing three-inch heels and a very tight St. John’s suit, teetered across the parking lot towards the shrine’s entrance. She was accompanied by her husband Bob, twenty years older and leaning on his cane with each step. “Hurry up, Bob! For God’s sakes, we are Family Values Gold Medallion level I Promise sponsors. We deserve a prime spot at the memorial.”
Bob thrust his cane in the air and growled, “Go for it Boots. I promise I’ll catch up.”
The organizer turned and glared at Annie as additional cars and limos queued behind her car. “Last chance. Move it.”
“Oops. My car just died,” Annie said. “We’d better call Triple A. Oh my, that could take a while. In the meantime, maybe your backup could bring you a more appropriate suit? One whose crotch and armpit areas aren’t permanently stained.”
The organizer looked down at the noted areas and fumbled with his walkie-talkie. “We have a situation. No, not a bomb. More like a nobody bitch without an invite blocking the entrance.”
A loud hum suddenly emanated from beautiful flowering hedges about fourteen feet apart from each other located in front of the parking lot. Two halves of a previously hidden electric fence moved towards each other. They zapped and incinerated every gnat, bee or fly that landed on them. The smaller bugs vaporized into a blue-purplish smoke. The bigger bugs hit the ground, squiggled what was left of their legs, and collapsed. For all the peace, love and feeling groovy vibes that this Shrine oozed, it still featured a fence that would happily fry a human’s trespassing behind.
Bootsy squeezed through the electric fence, but the two halves of the gate closed on and trapped her amply endowed behind. One butt cheek and foot in the shrine, one butt cheek and foot still in the parking lot. She squeaked, her eyes lit up, her hair sparkled and frizzed like a bad perm. The metallic threads in her suit took on a new sheen and resembled mini sparklers at a 4th of July party. Bootsy screamed but managed to pull herself to the Promised Land on the good side of the electric gate.
“Bob!” she screamed from the opposite side of the fence. “Don’t worry. I’m fine!”
Bob rubbed his hip and looked a little bummed. “Great. I’ll meet you after the service at the reception. I promise.”
Grady fanned his face with his hat. He now looked panicked. “Seriously, Annie. This is a good time for us to turn around and leave.”
Annie frowned. “Where I come from Grady, bitch isn’t a neighborly word.” She turned to the organizer. “I think a solution to both our problems would be to push my car into that parking space,” she said and pointed to a space within the shrine’s parking lot, yards away. “That way, all the somebody invited guests, behind me, could pull in and either park or valet. That seems fair to me. The nobody bitch.”
The organizer responded to his walkie-talkie. “Yes. Copy.”
Annie whispered to Grady. “Okay, watch this. We have him. Cheap suit organizer will not only cooperate, but probably offer to valet my car and give us complimentary foot rubs to make up for being a prick.”
The organizer clicked off his walkie-talkie and turned to Annie, “I don’t know where you’re from, lady. But death in L.A. is by invitation only,” he said, snapped his fingers at the penguins and barked something in a foreign language. The penguins lined up on the sides and rear of Annie’s Cabrio and pushed it. But, not to the spot in the parking lot. No, they pushed it straight towards the electrified fence.
Inside the car, Grady clutched his cowboy hat with one hand and his heart with the other and watched the zapping electric fence slowly approach through the windshield. He wiggled his door handle, but it was locked and controlled on Annie’s side of the car. “I know you’re stubborn and like to stand on principle. Admirable,” Grady said. “But what I’ve never told you before is that when I’m under certain types of duress, I have heart palpitations. I’m having them now. Put the keys in the ignition and turn this car around. For the love of God and my mother in Iowa who still has my Boy Scout merit badges and doesn’t know I’m gay.”
Annie whip turned and stared at him. “You told me two thousand times that you’ve been out forever. You bragged about it. Your mother doesn’t know you’re gay?”
The penguins huffed, puffed and pushed the Cabrio just yards from the fence.
“Aaah,” Grady hissed and hunched over. “Big secret revealed. Everybody in the universe knows I’m gay except for my mother. At least throw on the emergency brake or something.”
Annie threw on the emergency brake, which stopped the car abruptly and toppled a couple of the penguins to the ground where they lay groaning and clutching various body parts.
“Ohmygod I hope they’re okay!” Grady said.
“They probably just have minor hernias or slightly bulging lumbar discs,” she said and snapped her fingers at him. “Focus on your mother. How did you explain your creativity, your snappy sense of humor, your less than 5% body fat and your…”
“Fabulousness?” Grady replied.
“Yes.”
“She thinks I left the Baptist church and became a Pentecostal.”
Annie giggled, grabbed the key from her cleavage, stuck it in the ignition and fired up her car’s engine. She turned and waved at the remaining vertical penguins out her window. “Thanks for the help! We’re up and running and will be on our way now.” She revved, made a sharp U-ie and exited the shrine’s official premises. Not before slowing down at the organizer’s booth where she grabbed his attention with a, “Hey!”
He turned and sneered at her. “Was that as much fun as cow-tipping?”
“Ask your girlfriend, Mooey. Oh, and the Salvation Army’s having a closeout on suits this weekend. Good luck!” she said as they screeched out of the exit.
They passed Detectives Rafe Campillio and Kyle Pardue who entered the Shrine through the pedestrian gate on foot.
Rafe turned and stared at Annie.
Kyle noticed. “We’re partners. Share, Dude.”
“She’s the baker in the Fuller homicide.”
“The Cupcake Killer? Sexy,” Kyle said and eyed Rafe, searching for weakness, interest. “If I do recall, she’s separated, co
rrect-a-mundo?”
“I have no idea,” Rafe lied.
Annie and Grady drove two hundred or so feet up Sunset Boulevard past more parked cars and news vans with enormous satellite dishes, as well as some paparazzi. She veered to the side of the road and parked in the dirt next to the Shrine’s friendlier non-electric chain-linked fence. That fence also posted a “We CATCH Trespassers!” sign.
“Man, you almost gave me a heart attack,” Grady said as he wiped his sweaty face with his t-shirt. “You called and said, ‘Oh let’s work on your script, Grady. I’ve got some good ideas, Grady. It’ll be fun.’ This isn’t fun, Annie. I still think you’re the bomb, so I’ll hang for five more minutes but then I’m leaving.”
She rapped her knuckles on his head, twice. “Knock knock. Wake up call. This town will eat you up and spit you out like a cat hacking a furball. So suck it up. The best ideas are born from tragedy and heartbreak. Like when the Pumpkin Ride at Hollywoodland spun off its tracks and scattered broken people. It was terrible and unfortunate and everyone was completely freaked. But within four months, there were three TV movies of the week about it on three different networks,” Annie said. “You’re telling me that if some narcissistic asshole stole your husband, ruined your life and died, all in two days that you wouldn’t be just a tad curious who would be passing out, weeping or hiding big fat smiles at his funeral?”
Grady frowned. Then nodded his head. “Right. But you never mention Mike’s culpability in any of this. Mike’s not innocent. Eventually, you have to confront Mike.”
Annie shook her head and replied, “Yeah there and thank God not today because then I’d really friggin’ lose it. And this coming from the guy who hasn’t come out to his mother after how many decades? Stay in the car and worry a few more years, Grady. I’ve spent ten days without a husband, an f’d ankle, not one single smoke and still gathered information. I’ve got suspects to peruse, and I’m not waiting one second longer,” she said and tossed her fat “Dr. Prick Fuller” file into the back seat. She grabbed her purse and pushed her driver’s door open with a crutch. Placed her heavily wrapped ace bandaged left foot and ankle on the ground. Leveraged herself to standing on a crutch. Winced from the pain.