Cupcakes,Lies and Dead Guys

by PamelaDuMond

  Derrick held Annie’s hand. “Yes, Annie Rose Graceland. No matter what happens to you, now, in five years, ten, fifty, no matter where I land, I’ll be there for you. My karma in this lifetime was to stop offering false promises. Only promise what I truly believe I can do. I’ll do that for you, Annie.”

  “Oh,” she said. Thought that was one of the nicest things someone ever said to her. A few tears welled in her eyes. “Thank you.”

  She looked down at the pictures laid out like tile samples on her floor – Derrick, Mike, Sienna, Franco, Robbie and Robert Schuchiani. Something wasn’t right. Something was altered, Photoshopped, faked, whatever. She knew it in her bones, but she still couldn’t put her finger on it. Damn! Her phone rang and she let her answering machine pick up. Mike’s voice played through and he sounded plaintive, a teensy bit whiny, but appealed to her overwhelming desire to help, make everything right. Yes, she needed to join a Twelve Step Program for Co-Dependency.

  “Annie. It’s Mike. I miss you. I know it’s spur of the moment but I’m not just asking. I’m appealing to your desire to help the little people. Like me. Hah! I’ve got a big audition tonight at, well, it’s actually an A-list fund-raiser in Bel-Air. 1225 Copa Del Oro Drive. 7:30 p.m. Cocktail attire. Our names are on the list. You’re my rock. I need your support. If I can just see you and be by your side, I can pass this test. I can be the man you need me to be. Please meet me, Annie. We’ll talk afterwards. If I don’t hear from you, I’m going to assume we’re on, eh?”

  She picked up the phone. “I’ll meet you, Mike.”

  “You’re my girl. You’ve always been a good girl. That’s why I married you.”

  She hung up the phone. Mike knew her weak spot. She wouldn’t let go of a marriage and a lifetime commitment if they were the targets of a hoax. In a couple of hours she would meet Mike. And, she would do it right.

  Stoneycliff Cheesy Cakes

  Description: Light as air freshly baked, then cooled, mini cheesecakes in fresh graham cracker crusts. For variety we recommend you add different liquors to spice up your potential cheesecake orgy. Check out Kahlua, Amaretto, Bailey’s, etc. Do not attempt all these liquors in one mini-cheesecake as that would be considered an alcohol-cake. If you were pulled over by Police Officers while driving, you would most likely not pass a Breathalyzer Test.

  Appropriate Occasions: Promotion parties. Impersonating royalty. Snooping.

  Best Served With: A gift card to Staples, surgical tape, fabulous wrap dresses, a mother’s love and a father’s devotion.

  TWENTY

  Family Values Fun-Pack

  Another glorious sunset was setting on Venice, California, this funky community that hugged the Pacific Ocean. The oranges and reds of the sun played off the blue mist that rose on the ocean’s horizon and crept inland as Annie left her apartment.

  She wore a sexy but tasteful black above-the-knee cocktail dress. It had a plunging neckline without being tawdry and she even attempted three inch black strappy heels.

  Derrick stood next to her Victory Gardens and eyed her appreciatively. “You look hot, Cupcake. Where are we going?”

  “Where I’m going is none of your business. Tonight’s about my marriage. Considering that debacle is the reason I met you, you’re not invited,” she said, turned and walked to her car.

  Derrick looked disappointed. “You sure?”

  Annie waved bye bye over her shoulder.

  The Observer sat in the car parked across the street from Annie’s place and watched her leave. The Observer flipped the driver’s sun visor down. Smudged old rubber bands held a twenty-year-old faded picture of Derrick laughing and smiling. Simpler times. But the Observer knew the plan was in place, and only a few steps remained to ensure simpler times in the future. Their future. She pushed the sun visor closed, and it snapped back in place.

  Annie pulled up in her ancient Cabrio at the party address in Bel-Air that Mike had given her. She looked out her window at a gorgeous, immaculate two storied Cape Cod styled mansion. It sat on an enormous lot behind a large fence covered in blooming white trailing roses. This place was big money.

  There was a valet parking line that consisted of a few Beamers, some Benzes and shiny hybrids in front of her. Behind her piece-of-shit-classic car were a new hybrid SUV and a limo. The parking line moved quickly and she pulled up to the valet guy and hello, can you say karma, was back in front of…

  The event parking organizer. The same guy from Derrick’s memorial service at the Shrine. He was dressed in yet another, cheap sweat stained suit. “Name, please,” he asked and checked his clipboard.

  “Mrs. Piccolino,” Annie said, and turned her head to inspect her makeup in the rearview, aka, re-grouping.

  The event organizer reviewed his clipboard. “I don’t see a Mrs. Piccolino.”

  Oh God, no. This nightmare could not be happening again.

  “Wait!” he exclaimed. “I see a Mrs. Mike Piccolino. That you?” He tried to stare into her car.

  She avoided his gaze, leaned over into the passenger seat and stuck her butt up in the air. She opened the glove box and searched for something. Anything. “Yeah there.”

  Although Annie was rifling through the glove box, she knew the event organizer was checking out her ass. She leaned further forward and wiggled her butt. (Distract the enemy and buy time.) Those few seconds gave her enough time to throw on her glasses, grab her Mini-Mag ‘blind-em’ flashlight, a thick 8 X 10 envelope and a scribbled-on legal pad. She swiveled her hips and slid back into the driver’s seat. Placed her heeled feet on the pavement, wriggled her skirt above her knees, bared her legs to low thigh level, and stepped out of her car.

  The event organizer’s eyes traveled from Annie’s calves up to her thighs.

  Annie pondered a moment. Yes, a woman could be zen and forgive and forget. Poke out my other eye. Cut off my second leg. I’ll still have arms and can learn how to crab-walk. Those women usually had heart attacks at age forty-five. Or, a woman could wait years or lifetimes for an opportunity that offered a smidge of revenge. On the rare occasion retribution was easy, Annie believed it was stupid to ignore the call of karma. She flicked on her Mag flashlight, shone it square into the event organizer’s piggy eyes and semi-blinded him.

  He blinked. “Ow, lady.”

  “Oops, sorry,” she said and flicked the Mag off.

  “You gotta be careful with that thing. You know certain peoples can get migraines from that thing.”

  “You’re right.” Annie shined the Mag into his eyes again. Flicked it off. Turned it on.

  The event organizer grabbed his head. “Lady!”

  “I just don’t have the hang of this thing,” she said. Flicked the Mag on and off. “It’s dark out and I can’t really see.”

  Cars queued behind her in line, honked.

  He hunched over and covered his eyes with his hands.

  “Uh-oh!” On and off with the Mini-Mag light. “I just had Lasix,” Annie said. Grabbed his hand, stuck her keys in his palm, closed his fingers and slammed his hand back into his chest.

  “What’s your problem, lady?”

  “I don’t have a problem. I’m just a nobody bitch with an invitation who’s blocking your entrance. Be careful with my car. It’s a classic, you know.” She knew he wouldn’t get it, but didn’t care, ’cause she did. She walked into the swanky house and the fancy party with a big smile on her face.

  The inside of the entryway and living room looked Cape Cod. The furnishings and linens were Ralph Lauren-like, all classic lines and textiles, but more expensive. Cordial bartenders manned bars set up along the walls. They poured cocktails as well as wine and champagne. Smiling waiters carried trays of hors d’oeuvres and offered them to the many cocktail-attired guests.

  The party crowd spilled from the living room through french doors that led to a lit back porch. The outdoor area featured chaise lounges and a gorgeous pool in the background. Twinkly italian lights trailed from the pergola and pillars. Nat Kin
g Cole and his daughter crooned honey-throated duets through invisible speakers on the upscale sound system.

  A waiter approached Annie. “Chocolate croissantlettes. Family Values brand, of course.”

  “Thank you,” she said, took a cocktail napkin and a croissantlette. Munched on it. Not bad.

  She spotted Mike. He was across the room talking to a pristine forty-something couple. He worked it; he was “on.” That meant Mike flirted, was animated, funny, clever and smart. The couple bent over in laughter. The guy handed Mike his card. The woman winked at Mike, her manicured hand wrapped around the arm of her affluent husband as they walked off. When Mike was “on,” he was a killer combo. Mc-Happy Meal Mike Piccolino. Maybe not Mc-Happy forever. Annie’s jury was still out.

  Another waiter approached Annie. He carried a tray stacked with a large pile of what looked like folded laundry. Huh? “Family Values recyclable grocery bag?” the waiter asked. “Completely organic cotton, farmed and harvested by Native Americans who didn’t get casino rights. The dyes are natural.”

  “Absolutely,” Annie said and took one. She looked up and saw Mike talking up an expensively attired coiffed older couple. He waved at her. She waved back. Mike leaned into the older couple and said something. The older couple turned, smiled, and waved at her as well. “Who are they?” Annie asked the waiter.

  “The Bauerfelds are hosting this party,” the waiter said. “It’s the launch for their Family Values Eco-Friendly, organic line of diet food.”

  “Thanks,” Annie said. She checked out the bag. It had sturdy fabric, decent stitching, could hold some groceries, maybe even baked goods. Yeah there, all good. But why did the image printed in sepia on the bag look so familiar? She read the caption underneath, “Save the Endangered African Bifurcated Turtles.” Her face flushed blood red and she fanned it with the envelope she held.

  That was no endangered turtle. The image on the grocery bag was actually a photo of her Shrine pond water-soaked butt. She stared at it, hoping this was a continuation of her bad run of luck, and not her fifteen minutes of fame.

  She decided, (once again, she was used to this), to wait for Mike to take a break from working the room. She took a seat in a plush chair in front of a coffee table in the corner of the living room. Opened the envelope with the collection of Derrick’s blackmail photos and flipped through them.

  They were a lovely compilation. Perhaps Martha Stewart would turn them into a room tableau, complete with wallpaper, curtains and bed linens featuring primarily naked copulating couples. Whoever took these photos must have been very proud, like a parent snapping too many pics of his newborn.

  She flipped through the possible future Derrick Fuller coffee table sex book. Thought an appropriate title would be, “I Promise – I’ll F*** You Up.” The first chapter would be Derrick and her husband Mike in a lustful embrace. Even if it was faked, it was still yuck. No wonder her marriage was on a friggin’ pebble beach spiked with broken glass. She scrutinized the photo and noticed a tiny mark on Mike’s forearm. That had to be their almost identical blue heart-shaped prison tats. She remembered ’cause that was the moment she gave him her heart, agreed to marry him and move to Los Angeles.

  Yet, four plus years later, she was between life with Mike and life without him. Her consolation prize was that she was at some stupid cocktail party holding a grocery bag with a picture of her butt on it. Oh, joy.

  After the photos of Derrick and Mike came the racy pics of Derrick and Sienna. Poor Sienna, and even worse for her dad, Bill. The next series featured Derrick and Franco Fennedy in hugs and intimate embraces. Thank God, Franco had regained consciousness. Due to his temporary amnesia from his trauma, Franco had no recollection of who pounded on his head. Next were the images of Derrick and Robbie and Robert Schuchiani horizontal, vertical and every angle in between that showed plenty of skin. Thankfully Lewis had come to his senses. Lucky for Lewis that loyal Hailey was his fiancée and Robbie was his loving mother/father combo.

  Something in the photo montage caught Annie’s eye. She almost discovered the clue when Mike’s phone call interrupted her back at her apartment, hours earlier. She picked up a photo of Sienna and Derrick. Examined it. And saw a tiny mark visible on the inside of Sienna’s forearm.

  It looked like a small blue heart.

  Mike grabbed Annie’s hand. “What you looking at, babe?”

  “Nothing.” Annie flipped the stack of photos over and stuck them in her legal pad. She felt awkward as he held her hand. Her hand wasn’t sure if it wanted Mike to touch it, let alone hold it. But Annie shared marriage vows with Mike and meant every word she said. Midwestern girls were not quitters. She wasn’t about to be a wuss during tough times.

  “Annie,” Mike said and kissed her hand. “You’re here. You know a lot of girls wouldn’t…”

  “Wouldn’t show. Yeah there, know the drill.”

  “We concentrated on our careers. Let some time slide. If I get this gig, or even if I don’t, we’re totally back on track. I promise you.” Mike leaned in closer. Fiddled with her hair. That used to feel sexy. Now it felt weird. And those dreadful words, “I promise you…” festered in Annie’s ears and burrowed through her brain.

  A slick hot couple that resembled Posh and Becks (Gosh, maybe they were Posh and Becks?) waved at Mike from across the room and motioned him over. Mike lit up like he’d spotted a buy one, get one free on Hair Dye for Manly Men at the pharmacy. “Just a couple of minutes, Annie. They’re awesome connections for my career. I’ll be right back.”

  “Sure,” she said. “Do you want me to…?”

  “Got it covered, babe.” He kissed her quickly on her little heart tat on the inside of her forearm. He strode towards the impossibly beautiful trendy couple. She watched as they hugged him, and air kissed. The Bauerfelds drifted over. Bob Bauerfeld whispered into Mike’s ear. They nodded, smiled and shook hands. Mike’s face lit up like a fat birthday candle. Annie assumed he got the big job.

  She looked at her tat that Mike just kissed and frankly, felt sick. She licked her finger and rubbed his kiss off her arm. That damn tat had gotten her in so much trouble.

  Something clicked and the last puzzle piece fell into place.

  She pulled the stack of photos out from her legal pad and flipped through them, again. Her husband Mike, small heart tattoo on the inside of his forearm in his embrace with Derrick Fuller. Sienna Saffron, small heart-shaped tattoo on the inside of her forearm as she performed you-know-what on Derrick Fuller. Franco Fennedy’s beautiful young face stared up at Derrick while they embraced, with the bus station sign in the background. A small heart-shaped tat visible on Franco’s inner arm. Roberta Scuchiani, her wrap dress half on, half off, kissing Derrick Fuller, her arm around his neck, a small heart-shaped tattoo visible on her inner arm.

  Everyone’s photo batch had a pic with the same heart-shaped prison tat on his or her inner arm. When you’re from Wisconsin, if it walks like a deer, smells like a deer and it’s hunting season, then you’ve got a zealous hunter in camouflage splashed with a little dear urine peering through a shotgun scope aimed at Bambi’s father.

  Annie looked at her tat, looked at Mike and her mouth fell open. She’d figured out the puzzle. She knew only three people who had blue-heart prison tats on their inner arms. Those people were she, Mike and Julia. Oh yeah, the pictures were Photo-Shopped. Just not the glossies of Mike and Derrick. The racy photos of Mike and Derrick delivered to her on Valentine’s Day were the real deal. She was the ruse. She had always been the ruse.

  She grabbed the photos, stuffed them into her new recyclable bag and pushed herself off the comfy chair.

  Mike looked back at Annie, smiled and gave her thumbs up.

  She responded with the universal sign for slashing one’s throat with one’s hand, and strode towards the front door.

  Mike said an über-quick goodbye to Posh, Becks and the Bauerfelds. Pushed his way firmly but politely through the crowd towards Annie and said. “Don’t leave.
”

  “I’m done,” she said.

  “Not now, Annie. I got the job. All our work paid off. Don’t go.”

  She turned and looked at Mike Piccolino. So handsome, funny, and charismatic. But still, a loser.

  “It was only about my career. That meant taking care of us, our future. Our family,” Mike said. “It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.” He pushed through the crowd towards her.

  Annie wriggled around the waiters and guests away from Mike headed towards the mansion’s front door. She saw Derrick standing next to the door, wringing his hands.

  “I’m sorry,” Derrick said.

  “I know.”

  “I hoped it wasn’t true.”

  “Me, too.”

  Annie remembered her conversation with Dr. Stern, Derrick’s dermatologist. She looked back at Mike. “I want to see your tattoo.”

  Mike paused. “Babe. Not now,” he said. “We’ll discuss that in private.”

  “I want to see your blue heart tattoo. The one you got before you proposed marriage to me.” She stuck out her stiff upper lip, ’cause the room became icy cold and she felt like she was snowmobiling in minus forty degrees. “I want to see it.”

  Mike wouldn’t meet her look. “I said, that’s private.”

  “You lasered it off, right? Another way to be more commercial.”

  Mike wouldn’t reply.

  “I’m not a character in a play or a commercial, Mike,” Annie said. “I’m not perfect. I’m not politically correct. My current version of learning meditation is self-medication. Sometimes I run over, maim or kill things. I loved you, Mike Piccolino and I promised you my heart for a lifetime. But I won’t stay in a relationship where I am lied to, disrespected. My promises to you end now. I. Am. Done.”

  “No, you’re not,” Mike said. The Bauerfelds were staring at them, at their new poster boy for family values. He raised his voice. “You’re a good girl, Annie. You’re my wife. You value family, children, healthy food and what’s great for the environment.”