Cupcakes, Diaries, and Rotten Inquiries: A Romantic, Comedic Annie Graceland Mystery, #6

by Pamela DuMond

  “I think you meant the cheap body glitter smeared across her budget augmented cleavage.” She finished her cupcake and brushed the crumbs from her hands.

  “Why won’t you let me go? Why have you gotten so mean?”

  “I’d love for you to go, Mack. Leave, I beg you. Shoo! Be gone! But I’m not the mean one. The person who killed you is the mean one.”

  “That’s crazy talk, girl.” I glanced down at my trembling hands. “I’m a living, warm-blooded man.” Theodore looked up at me and purred. “Your cat adores me. Would a cat like a ghost? Mack is not dead.” I shivered and suddenly felt cold down to my very bones.

  “My cat thinks his reflection in the water bowl is another cat,” she said. “As much as I love Theodore, he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed. I hate to break this to you Mack—you’re dead. Have you looked at your shirt?”

  “No, I’ve been looking at yours.” She was wearing a low-cut T-shirt that highlighted her girls.

  Annie sighed. “Hang on.” She shuffled to her bathroom, returned with a hand mirror, and held it in front of me. “I’m sorry. Take a peek.”

  So I did. “I see my handsome mug has a bit of a smudge on my right cheek.”

  “Right. Look again.” She angled the mirror down.

  “There’s a fat tire tread mark on my white dress shirt, a little blood, and I’m missing a couple of buttons. Oh no! Can a dry cleaner get those stains out? Mack’s strapped for cash and can’t afford another dress shirt right now. Oh, God, what’s Mack going to do?”

  Annie sighed. “I’m calling for back-up.”

  Dear Diary—Mack is not feeling good. Mack is definitely off his game. Mack is scared.

  Adios, buddy.

  Must go see a man about a horse.

  Mack

  Shoo Fly Pie by Author J.M. Kelley Author J.M. Kelley

  Ingredients:

  Crumb mixture—which will be lumpy. Set aside about ½ cup to top pie

  1 tbsp. shortening

  2/3 cup brown sugar

  1 cup flour

  Filling:

  1 egg beaten

  ¾ cup water, boiling

  1 cup molasses, the thicker the better

  1 tsp. baking soda

  1 unbaked refrigerated pie crust

  Directions:

  Combine soda with boiling water.

  Add egg and syrup.

  Add crumb mixture.

  Pour into piecrust and top with the set-aside portion of crumb mixture.

  Bake at 375 degrees for about 10 minutes, and then lower the temperature to 350 degrees. Continue to bake until firm, usually about 40 minutes.

  Pie should be gooey but somewhat firm, and bottom crust usually turns out rather moist, that suits the nature of this sweet treat!

  Chapter 17

  The Village People

  Dr. Derrick

  Dearest Diary,

  Annie says she doesn’t need me, want me, and can’t wait to get rid of me. So who shows up when she needs help? Me. I’ll take all those good karma points because she never actually reached out to me.

  Instead she called wannabe Grady, who phoned trampy Julia, and somewhere in the hum of their scatter-brained energy field, I heard my name bandied about. That’s when I decided to pay a visit to the hen party at Annie’s hovel in the ’hood.

  I hovered on the ceiling and watched as Annie paced across her single apartment, alternating between throwing her hands up in the air, and pointing to the dead guy slumped on her couch, petting her very fat cat, Pompadour, who purred loudly.

  Julia had already mixed herself a cocktail even though it wasn’t cocktail hour yet anywhere in the United States. She sipped it as she perched on a stool in the kitchen that overlooked Annie’s walk-in closet, oops, I meant living room.

  Grady sat on the floor, legs akimbo, worriedly rubbing his temples above the stems of his new designer glasses that he hoped would make him look retro and writer-ly. I knew the look he was going for. That look, however, would not help him get words on the page.

  Besides myself, the most interesting character in the room was the newly minted ghost, Mack McManus. He sported an enormous tire track running up his cheap white top that he probably thought passed for a dress shirt. The dirty imprint continued onto half of his face, which appeared completely confused. Poor guy.

  I remember what that moment felt like: the first time you wake up dead and you’re perplexed. You don’t know if you’re dreaming, or awake. Until you ultimately have the sinking sensation that you’re actually dead—which is a stupendously sucky moment.

  “Oh, my God!” Grady said. “I can’t believe you’ve got another dead guy in the house!”

  Mack punched his arm half-heartedly into the air. “Mack ‘The Man’ McManus really wants out of Annie’s house.”

  “I can believe it,” Julia said. “Annie’s like a dead-guy magnet.”

  “I am not.” She huffed. “Just six months ago, I helped Edith Flowers find her killer and go to the light. Yes, she was dead—but clearly she was a woman. Look—I have a dilemma and I need your help. My mother planned a sneak attack aka surprise visit. She’s coming out to L.A. for Thanksgiving.”

  “How did she book a flight last minute?” Julia slurped her cocktail.

  “Nancy’s got her fingers in a lot of pies,” Annie said. “Who knows whom she blackmailed or what kind of favor she called in. Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I can’t be solving Mack’s murder while she’s underfoot. I also cannot be dealing with Mack haunting my house while mom’s in town.”

  Grady thrust his hand high in the air. “I volunteer! Mack can stay at my apartment while Nancy’s in town.”

  Mack glared at Annie. “I don’t even know him.”

  “Thanks Katniss-I-mean-Grady. But this isn’t The Hunger Games. Besides, I have no idea how to get Mack, a newly minted ghost, over to your apartment. Do we drive him? E-mail him? Messenger him? It’s confusing.” Annie frowned. “Mom knows I’m slightly psychic and pretends—badly, might I add—to ignore it. If she catches me talking to a dead guy or solving a ghost’s homicide—there will be hell to pay. We’ve got to solve Mack’s murder, do it quickly, and send him to the light.”

  “Maybe you should be thinking about sending me to the light. After all, I’ve been dead for longer than Mack.” I dropped to the floor, as light as the air I flew through, stood up tall, stretched my arms overhead and swiveled my hips from side to side.

  Mack screamed. “There’s a man from The Village People in your living room!”

  Annie’s eyes narrowed. “You mean the ¾ naked guy wearing the silver Pucci thong?”

  “I don’t know what a Pucci is!” Mack swiped the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead.

  “Pucci’s a prestigious designer,” I said. “Just like a Cadillac.”

  “Who are you?” Mack shook his head. “And why are you wearing a G-string?”

  “It’s a thong,” I said.

  “His name is Derrick,” Annie said. “He died in that outfit. I’ve tried to cover him on multiple occasions, but it just doesn’t work.”

  “Derrick’s here?” Grady glanced around the room.

  “My name is Dr. Derrick Fuller. I am the beloved author of the I Promise You Can Change Your Life self-help book series. And I am here to help you, Mack. I am here to help you change your life.”

  “Good luck with that one, Derrick,” Annie said. “Mack’s already dead.”

  “How can Mack change his life?” He cowered as Pompadour treaded his fat paws across his thighs. “Things look pretty grim right now.”

  When a brilliant idea illuminated my brain and I extended my arm to the disheveled, dead guy. “Take my hand, Mack.”

  “I don’t know, buddy.”

  “Trust me. Take my hand. Because I, Dr. Derrick Fuller, promise you—”

  “Take a second look at his silver thong, Mack.” Annie said. “Because I promise you that hand he’s offering has fondled its contents. Frequ
ently.”

  “Pay her no attention, Mack. I’ve built a veritable empire promising as well as delivering a lot of things to a lot of people. And now, I, Dr. Derrick Fuller, beloved of Oprah, promise to be your personal coach. Your biggest fan. Your best friend, and the spirit who will help solve your crime and guide you to the light. And when you pass over to the Afterlife—well, from what I hear, it’s all sweet from there on out. It’s hot Vegas babes, vintage Caddies, Frank Sinatra, the man himself, serenading you—”

  “A hot tub with the blonde twenty-one-year-old twin ladies in town from Minneapolis?” Mack asked.

  “I’ll work on it,” I said.

  “Wait a minute, Derrick,” Annie said. “You think that you’ll get to pass to the Afterlife with him—don’t you?”

  “It’s good karma, Cupcake.”

  “No more alimony?” Mack asked.

  “A beautiful thing, my man,” I said. “You see, Mack, being dead really isn’t all that bad once you pass to the Afterlife. Being stuck on earth when you’re dead—that’s the bad part.”

  “Derrick, I’m fine with you helping,” Annie said. “I’d love for the both of you to pass quickly—like a mild case of food poisoning—before Mom gets into town.”

  “I fear you are confused, Annie,” I said. “I’m here to be a shoulder for Mack. Not to allow you to slack off and shirk your duties.”

  “Shirk?” Annie’s shoulders rose so fast they nearly slammed into her ears. “I’m the hardest working chick on the planet. I have never, ever,” she finger quoted in the air, “‘shirked’ my duties.”

  “Stop letting that irrelevant asshat, Derrick whatever his-last-name-was, upset you. I’m making us cocktails.” Julia hopped off her chair and made her way to the fridge. “Something fruity. It’ll count toward our five daily servings of fruits and veggies requirement. Piña colada or margarita?”

  “Do you see why I need to go to the Afterlife?” I asked Annie. “I will always be relevant. I will not tolerate the rampant disregard for the dead.”

  “Piña. You know she can’t do tequila,” Grady said. “Could you make me one, too?”

  “Mack wants to know if this is all you people do? Do you just sit around and argue, eat, and drink too much inside of this closet-sized apartment?” He asked. “Or do you actually have a plan on how to figure out who killed me? Because Mack thinks that hanging around with you, in this place, might actually be hell on earth.”

  “And, thank you,” I said.

  “Skip the cocktails, Julia,” Annie said. “I’ve got to be razor sharp. I’ve got to focus. We have to figure out who killed Mack before one wheel of Nancy’s plane bounces off the tarmac at LAX in a little over a week from now.” She walked to her couch and grabbed Pompadour from Mack’s arms. “I appreciate you being sweet to my cat. But I need you to think. Besides me—and I’m completely innocent, by the way—who’d you piss off enough to want you dead?”

  *****

  And that, Dear Diary, was the question of the day. I am totally looking forward to finally passing to the Afterlife. Good God, it seems if you want something done correctly—just do it yourself.

  Of course, Annie acted like this had to be a group effort, insisted we all stand around in a circle, holding hands, channeling “positive energy”, and practically singing “Kumbaya” as we promised to not only chronicle our search for Mack’s killer in our Diaries, but also promote finding his killer on Twitter posts with the hashtag: #SendMacktotheLight.

  I pointed out to her that Twitter might not be the best venue to find clues. Besides, what if her Mom was on Twitter? She promptly shushed me, and chanted the refrain to “All You Need is Love” until Grady started fidgeting, and finally blurted that he had to use her facilities.

  Pardon me while I upchuck, Diary. Oh, that’s right. I can’t because I’m dead. This debacle is all so upsetting, and frankly—crass. Proper things should be done in a proper manner. What’s to become of us? It’s simply too much. I can practically hear my former stomach gurgling from the audacity of this whole thing. I wish I could take a Pepsid or Pepto or a little Gas-X. Sigh.

  Sincerely,

  Dr. Derrick Fuller, Ph.D.

  Chapter 18

  The Hit List

  Annie

  Dear Diary,

  After questioning Mack, repeatedly, regarding who might have wanted him dead, he finally gave up his ridiculous Saint Mack act and divulged his top hit list. I’m including their names here:

  #1. Annie Rose Graceland. No. NO! Do I even own a pencil let alone an eraser? Nothing to see here, no one to look at—move along.

  Devin Dylan of Marina Del Rey, California Cadillac Dealership. Dev was Mack’s #2 pick for his killer. He was out with Mack the night he was run over.

  Oh yes—we surmised Mack was murdered during a hit and run in a very large parking lot in Culver City shared by Repeat the Beat Gentleman’s Club, a 99 Cent store, a Korean fast-food joint, a coffeehouse, and an office supply place. I caught bits and pieces of it on the news and Raphael confirmed it when he called to say we couldn’t meet up for a couple of days. He was swamped investigating the hit and run of that used car salesman from Las Vegas.

  “Tell him I was a salesman for Previously Owned Vehicles,” Mack said as he reclined on my sleeper sofa, watching Law and Order: SVU re-runs while he petted Theodore.

  I frowned: they both had turned into complete couch potatoes. This was fine for Mack but not so great for Teddy. My cat was around three-years-old and needed to get his plump, furry behind off my sofa and run around a bit for heart-healthy exercise. He was doing just that, every day, until Mack showed up on the scene and seduced him into his sedentary ways. Now, Theodore just lay in Mack’s arms and/or treaded his dead lap, before he settled in for a snuggle, a long purr, and hours of being petted during back-to-back re-runs.

  I found this strange—he never snuggled with me when I watched TV. Theodore liked my dead ex-boyfriend more than he liked me? I was slightly hurt as well as offended. I glared at him. “Guess we’ll be cutting back on the canned tuna for you, mister.”

  “Don’t be mean to your cat!” Mack hollered.

  “Then, stop turning him into a slug.”

  “What’s going on?” Raphael asked.

  I turned my attention back to the phone. “Nothing, TV’s on in the background. No worries, Raphael. Take all the time you need. I heard something on the news about that Vegas victim dude. He was probably offed by a jealous rival. Do check in when you’ve got a break! Miss you, terribly. Mwah!” I threw him a kiss before I hung up.

  Mack beat out Dev for the WEPOC #2 salesmen award. Motive? Jealousy. Ambition.

  Mack didn’t think his former wife, Bailey, was a suspect as, according to him, she really enjoyed her alimony and living the fancy-life in their tri-level tract house in a suburb of Madison, Wisconsin that she ‘scored’ as part of their divorce settlement.

  I pointed out to him, that after seventeen years of being married to Mack, Bailey probably deserved that house as well as a medal.

  His eyes misted over and he said Bailey definitely had the chest to pin it on.

  I pinched his arm.

  He jumped. “Ow! Why are you so mean?” He glowered at me.

  “Because you’re dead, and my mom’s coming to town. I don’t have time for tickling, fun and games, or reminiscing. We’ve got work to do. And we don’t have a lot of time to do it.”

  He sighed, rubbed his arm, and shared that he did suspect his former father-in-law, Bob Bubeck, had sharpened a few axes to grind with him.

  Bob arrived in town, spur-of-the moment, for the WEPOC convention—which Mac hadn’t planned on. They had a few uncomfortable encounters: the first in a men’s room when they did their ‘business’ at adjacent urinals. According to Mack, the conversation was a little hostile. I called it ‘catty’.

  “Huh.” Bob glanced over and down at Mack. “Yes, I can see yet another reason why my darling daughter divorced you.”

  “Ri
ght. And I can see why you haven’t had an unpaid date since your third wife skipped out on you for the UPS guy,” Mack said.

  Their second encounter was at Trendy Gadgets for Bitchin’ Cars booth on the convention’s main floor. “Oh, nice to run into you again, Mack,” Bob said. “You’re in the top-of-the-line big equipment store. I suspect you’re looking for the small equipment budget booth. That’s in the basement next to the exit door.”

  “Thanks, Bob,” Mack said. “I saw you hanging around there earlier passing out your cards. So sorry someone called the Security Guards who kicked you out for being a vagrant.”

  “I’ll have your ass, Mack,” Bob said.

  “Not on my watch, Bob. You’ll have to go back to the special spas and pay a little more for that extracurricular activity.”

  And then there was the actual awards dinner. According to Mack, the ballroom was packed with a couple hundred folks: used car salesmen from the western states and adjoining states, as well as their dates, wives, mothers, and fathers. The men wore fancy suits, and the women were attired in cocktail dresses clutching knock-off designer handbags. Mack didn’t have a date. He’d made a last ditch effort to contact his distant relative, but her number was now disconnected.

  Bob Bubeck not only booed when Mack’s name was announced as WEPOC’s #2 Top Salesman of the Year, but stood up, swayed back and forth a bit, and slurred loudly that WEPOC judges needed to recount the vote.

  The Masters of Ceremonies told him to shut up and awarded Mack his trophy on the elevated center stage to a sweeping round of applause. Mack thrust his award high in the air and declared, “Mack ‘The Man’ McManus is Number Two in WEPOC’S house!”

  Mack’s fourth I mean third suspect was a middle-aged woman, Tiffany Tominski. She’d stalked Mack for fifteen years because she claimed he had sold her a lemon almost two decades ago, back in Madison, Wisconsin.