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

by Pamela DuMond

  Tiffany was a low-level trust fund baby who, when she turned forty, moved from Wisconsin to Beverly Hills, California. She purchased several cockroach-infested apartment buildings, slapped a coat of paint on the inside and out, charged top dollar for the units, and then invested almost zippo into their upkeep. According to Mack her renters hated her.

  I asked Mack to think of more people who wanted him dead.

  But, he shook his head and said, “No. I gave you a couple of hot, first-string leads. Work with them before you flesh out your second string. Take some time to map out a game plan on who goes wide, who travels down the field that you can long bomb to, and who can cover your back and keep you from getting sacked. I did that when I quarterbacked for the U of W Whitewater football team. The strategy works for selling previously owned vehicles, as well.”

  “Hmm.” I nodded. “Good plan. We bring the A game to our A suspects before we bring the B game to our B suspects.”

  “You nailed it, little lady.” He dodged toward me for the tickle, but I jumped back and evaded him.

  “I’m done with the tickling thing, Mack.”

  “But—”

  “No buts,” I said. “I’m done. No más. Stop it. Now.”

  My #SendMacktotheLight team disappeared just as quickly as it was formed. Julia went back to working and dating. Grady returned to his Neener-Neener writing. Derrick resumed wherever he puttered about all day and whomever he haunted all night. So right now—for the most part—it was simply Mack and I.

  Familiar story? Yup. Dear Diary, if you wanted something done—do it yourself. I do believe I am the only person who still believed in this utterly old-fashioned piece of advice.

  *****

  I went to work the next day, accompanied by Mack, of course. I grabbed a few semi-private minutes with Mort Feinberg, and informed him that my mom was, spur-of-the-moment, coming to town for the Thanksgiving holiday, and that she couldn’t wait to meet him! I desperately needed and pleaded for a few flexible hours—only for a week or so—to prepare for her visit.

  “Family-Shmamily,” Mort said. “Take the hours you need, kid. Just let Pinky Stein know ahead of time, so we have all the stations covered for the holiday. Yes? Oy gevalt. Such a busy week.”

  “Will do. Who’s Pinky Stein?” I asked.

  “My friend, Steven Stein’s daughter. She’s going through a divorce, and she needed a part-time job. So I hired her during the holidays as a Coordinator.”

  “You, Mort Feinberg, are a Saint to Women who-are-getting-divorced,” I said. “If I were Catholic, I’d nominate you. But I’m not, so I can’t.”

  He waved his hand dismissively at me. “Pinky’s a bit high-strung. But Steven and I go back five decades. I’m happy to help him out.”

  “You are a gentleman, Mort,” I said, “I adore you.” We high-fived. “I’ll check in with Pinky and make sure our schedules mesh.”

  I returned to the front kitchen as Mack slouched on a chair in the corner, waiting for me to break free from my job. “Mack needs you to get moving and track down my killer,” he shouted.

  “Hello!” I pointed to the fifty delivery bags on the counters next to me that deli workers were filling with food containers. “Busy here right now. Your time will come.”

  When a squat, middle-aged woman with pink hair and black, cat-eye glasses poked my arm. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I’m organizing the various take-out and to-go orders,” I said.

  “That’s funny. Because to me it looks like you’re babbling gibberish into the air.”

  I frowned. “Well, you would be wrong, because I was talking on my headset to a driver who’d just called in asking about the delivery to Probable Pictures Production Company.”

  “Funny. You’re not wearing a headset.”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Where is it?” She squinted at me.

  “In my earlobe.”

  “That looks like a half carat CZ stud earring from Coco’s Boutique in the Mall.”

  “To most of the population. But to those of us who keep up with trendy, high tech accessories, it’s the latest in fashion gear. I’m surprised you don’t know about it. You look pretty fashionable yourself.”

  “Thank you.” She sniffed. “By the way, Probable Pictures Production Company doesn’t order from Feinberg’s anymore. They jumped ship after their new president took over. She’s vegan. They order from Yummy Greens—the organic place down the block.”

  “Yeah, I meant Practically Perfect Productions. I get all the P’s mixed up.” I shuffled some bags around and tried to ignore the crabby-looking woman with the plethora of pink corkscrew curls sprouting from her head.

  “Here’s a P for you to remember,” she said. “I’m Pinky Stein and I’m your new boss.”

  “Aha, Ms. Stein! So nice to meet you,” I said. “Mr. Feinberg told me about your dilemma. I’m very sorry, and might I say from one woman to another—”

  “We don’t need the ‘from one woman to another talk.’” She air quoted with her fingers that sported sparkly pink acrylic nails. “We’re not sharing marital war stories over cocktails after work; we won’t be watching Beaches together, or humming it’s theme song, “Wind Beneath My Wings”; and we will never become BFFs. You’re not answering to Mr. Feinberg, anymore. You’re answering to me. And I’m not as nice as Mr. Feinberg. I run a tight ship. Things get done promptly around here, or you’ll quickly find yourself on the other side of that door.” She pointed down the hallway.

  “You’re going to make me go to the bathroom?” I asked.

  She frowned, swiveled and gestured at the front door. “That door. You know what I mean. Chop-chop. Do not let me catch you wasting valuable time again.” She turned and stomped off.

  “Uh-oh,” Mack said. “I didn’t think it was possible, but she’s meaner than you. Hurry up!”

  *****

  I had a crappy night’s sleep. I tossed and turned and dreamt of bill collectors chasing me, and ghosts lumbering after me like a fleet of Frankensteins. I shivered, and I grew so cold and clammy in my nightmare that my fingers turned blue, then black, and then snapped off. I told my dream tormenters to give a girl a break—that I would do my best to solve their murders and pay my Visa bill on time.

  I woke up in a sweat, my heart pounding. I tried to go back to sleep. But, I couldn’t help staring at Mack slumped on the opposite corner of my sofa bed, petting Teddy, watching another Law & Order marathon. I was spent, simply exhausted.

  That’s when I realized I needed Julia. She had talents I’d never in a thousand years learn, let alone accomplish. I picked up my phone and hit one number.

  Lucky for me, she answered.

  “I’m in the middle of filing a motion to release Mr. Juarez on a zero money bond,” she said.

  “So, Mr. Juarez is not guilty?” I asked.

  “No,” Julia said. “It appears to me that Mr. Juarez is amazingly guilty. But sometimes a girl has to do what a girl has to do.”

  And that, Dear Diary, is my Julia. She goes the extra mile.

  Xo,

  Annie

  Official Bette Midler Wind Beneath my Wings Music Video

  Chapter 19

  Be a Better Flirt

  Julia

  Dear Diary,

  Yet again, I have been talked into deploying my sexy Southern accent, my dangerous curves, and seductive ways to help Annie get something done.

  She thinks—(I know)—that I am a better flirt than her. I’ve told her, repeatedly, to simply take a Learning Annex class about this because flirting is a skill that she can use daily. But I’m helping her out—like I always do—because she’s stressing about Mack squatting in her apartment, and the fact that her mom, Nancy, is packing her floral tapestry suitcase set for her upcoming Thanksgiving visit.

  I donned my sturdiest push-up bra, squeezed into my sexy, red skirt suit, applied matching lipstick, and three coats of mascara. I drove twenty minutes to rendezvous with
Annie outside her apartment, and honked the horn three times as I parked my cute Ford Focus sedan curbside.

  She walked toward me looking like a zombie: bleary-eyed, dressed in yoga clothes, a T-shirt, and a hoodie. Her hair was gathered in a ginormous bun on top of her head.

  “Hey chickie doo-dah,” I said. “You hiding a bomb in that bun, or are you just happy to see me?” I stepped out of my car and smoothed my skirt down to mid-thigh level, where it was supposed to land.

  “You’re driving, right?” Annie tried to open the passenger door, but I’d already locked it with the remote.

  “No,” I said. “You are. You’re the one ‘shopping’ for a new car.”

  “Devin Dylan is never going to believe that I’m moving from a POS twelve-year-old vehicle into a Cadillac. You drive a nice car. He might think you’re a hot lawyer who’s moving up in the world and simply wants a fancier, more status-symbol kind of auto.” She stopped in her tracks, squinted up and to her right. “Wait a minute. What? Devin likes a challenge? So you’re saying I should drive?”

  A chill enveloped me as I realized Mack was coming along for the ride. I unlocked my car with the remote and it beeped.

  “No worries, Julia. You were right,” Annie said. “We’re taking my car, after all.” She moved toward her dilapidated sedan parked across the street.

  I stood on the grassy curbside, opened the front door, reached inside and grabbed a pashmina. Annie had already started the engine as I walked toward her—when something squished under the bottom of my pump. “Ick, I think I might have stepped in dog poo.”

  “Wipe your feet on the grass before you get in my car,” Annie said. “Better yet, I’ve got sanitary wipes in the glove compartment. Take off that shoe and clean it on the way to the car dealership.”

  “Seriously?” I balanced precariously on one foot with my poo-encrusted foot extended in front of me.

  “Would you want me stepping in your car with dog poo on my shoes?” She asked. “By the way, Mack says if you hold your leg up a little higher he’ll catch a better view of your red, lacy undies.”

  I frowned. “They are not red,” I lied.

  “Mack said he’s dead—not colorblind.”

  I huffed, yanked off my pump, and hopped toward the passenger door.

  “I’m not telling her that. Oh, really,” Annie said, “You want me to? Fine.” She sighed and watched me maneuver inside the car. “Mack said that he’d love for you to sit on his lap.”

  I grabbed onto the auto’s roof, stopped in my tracks, and teetered. “This is not turning into the fun adventure you promised.” I swiveled, hopped a few more steps, and flung open her back door. “I can’t believe I’m not even allowed to sit in the passenger seat.”

  “Hang on, Mack’s moving. We can’t be showing up at Marina Cadillac with you in the back and me in the front, unless I’m like your driver, or…” Annie said. “What? That’s not a bad idea? Devin’s not going to buy… Okay—fine—we’ll try it your way. You’re the used car salesman, after all. Fine! Previously Owned Vehicle Salesman. You can explain your idea during our drive over there. Ack!” She squirmed, wriggled around, and spazzed out for a few seconds.

  “Oh, my God!” I exclaimed. “Are you having a seizure?”

  “I’m fine!” She grimaced. “No tickling! We agreed. Julia—just get in the back. Stop it, Mack!” She screamed at her passenger seat.

  I settled into the back and strapped on my seat belt. “Let’s do it. Give me a couple of sanitary wipes and fair warning before we get there so I can I refresh my lipstick.”

  *****

  Annie tossed a few wipes over her shoulder. I caught them and scrubbed the bottom of my shoe. I wasn’t sure how this ‘suspect investigation’ would turn out. She flipped on the radio to the Golden Oldies station. “Get Outta My Dreams, Get Into My Car” by Billy Ocean played. Billy Ocean could get into Annie’s car and take my place here anytime he wanted. I wasn’t sure if we’d find any good information, let alone survive another stealth tickle attack by Mack as we drove on the very busy, six-lane Lincoln Avenue from Venice Beach, California toward the Marina. But I was here, just like I promised.

  Suddenly, Annie gasped, hit the brakes, and white-knuckled the steering wheel as my head whiplashed.

  “Stop screaming like a five-year-old having a meltdown!” She said.

  “I’m not! Stop driving like your first day in Driver’s Ed!”

  “I don’t mean you, Julia.” She stomped her foot back on the gas as the tires screeched and we flew forward. “Mack. What do you mean the guy from the Village People is sprawled out in the back seat?” Her face pinched as she squinted in the rearview mirror. “Oh, crap!” She punched on the radio.

  Strangely enough, “YMCA” by The Village People blared.

  “You tell me right now that I am not sitting next to Derrick Fuller,” I shouted over the disco music and cowered in the corner.

  “Toughen up, sister. And by the way, Mack,” Annie said. “The thong scares me too.”

  How’s a girl supposed to find a date in all of this craziness, Diary?

  Kisses,

  Julia

  Official Music Video for "YMCA" by The Village People

  Chapter 20

  Smells like Sugar

  Dr. Derrick

  Dearest Diary,

  I’m almost ashamed to communicate all the shenanigans that transpired that afternoon Annie decided to investigate Devin Dylan at Marina Cadillac Pre-Owned Cars Division. But, I’ve already committed to this tragic comedy, and I do not go back on my word. Okay, yes, there was that one time… make that five…fine… let’s cut to the chase and agree to not talk about words and numbers, as they are very unimportant compared to intentions and actions.

  I materialized on the scene outside Annie’s hovel where I witnessed her slightly slutty BFF Julia step in dog excrement, observed what transpired with Mack, and realized this was my opportunity to help them investigate his murder. (Which also might help me score points in my endeavors to pass to the Afterlife.)

  To his credit, Mack had already concocted a ruse that if well played, might actually work to uncover information from the suspect—Devin Dylan. In the deception, Julia Devereaux was now a privileged, wealthy, Southern belle, in town to shop the movie rights to her inspirational story about how she rescued the animals during Hurricane Whatever.

  To their credit, they didn’t pull this out of thin air. Annie Googled Julia’s name and learned that nearly two decades ago, a woman named Juliet Everdeaux had actually performed this heroic task. They simply ‘borrowed’ her story and ignored the fact that Juliet Everdeaux was now one hundred and two.

  Back to the ruse… Ms. Devereaux had ‘hired’ Annie to be her chauffeur, but was appalled when she arrived to pick her up at The Grand Beverly Hotel driving a clunker. It was too close to the holidays to rent a car, so Julia preferred to see what classy pre-owned vehicle she could snag for a decent price—hence the trip to Marina Cadillac POV division. Annie had called to ensure Devin was working that day, and gave the receptionist a ‘heads-up’ that he would be dealing with a VIP.

  Now we stood outside on the lot, surrounded by shiny cars of all makes and models, waiting for our suspect to arrive. I could almost smell the ocean air through the exhaust fumes emanating from the crowded, disgusting thoroughfare, otherwise known as Lincoln Avenue. My nose crinkled when I caught a whiff of something else…

  “I scrubbed and scrubbed the bottom of my shoe, but I’m worried I still smell like poo,” Julia said.

  Annie and Mack sniffed the air.

  “No, honey,” Annie said. “You smell like sugar.”

  “If sugar smelled like a sanitary wipe with a hint of poo,” Mack said. “You need to tell your femme fatale, Julia, exactly that. She needs to bring her “A” game with Devin. The strippers at Repeat the Beat were all over him like ants on honey. Like he was the college quarterback who’d just won the big game. Remember that, Annie? Mack used to be that guy
.” He sniffled and then started crying.

  Just a little—just enough to make Annie, the overly emotional wuss that she was feel sorry for him. “Aw, Mack. She took his hand and squeezed it.

  “What if Devin killed Mack because he was jealous?”

  “That’s why we’re here,” she said. “Count yourself lucky that my friends and I are the next thing to being professional crime-solvers. Besides, you had a good run, Mack. Everyone will remember your glory days.”

  “Now is not the time to reminisce,” I said. “You need to concentrate on the bigger picture—investigating Mr. Dylan and solving Mack’s murder. Stroll down memory lane later.”

  “Do you not have a single ounce of sensitivity, Derrick?” Annie asked as tears rolled down Mack’s face. “It’s okay, Mack. We’ll figure it out. We always did before. We’ll do it again. Just no romance involved this time—it can complicate things.”

  He nodded. “Mack thinks you’ll change your mind.”

  “I’m not changing my mind,” Annie said.

  “You’ve changed your mind plenty of times in the past.”

  “That’s not going to happen this time.”

  “We’ll see. Heads up, Annie—apparently Devin’s more exotic than Mack. I suspect he has his pick of the litter.”

  Annie dropped his hand and frowned. “Unless you’re talking about puppies or kittens, I really don’t see how that matters right—”

  “Holy mother of God.” Julia inhaled sharply as her mouth formed a perfect O-shape, she froze like a statue and stared: her eyes wide and transfixed.