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

by Pamela DuMond

  I met Mike Piccolino for the first time years ago when he came to our family’s house for Thanksgiving. There was something off about him. He was too good to be true. He was gracious. He bowed, smiled, and presented me with a lovely, enormous bouquet of exotic flowers. He insisted on calling me Mrs. Graceland.

  I said, “That’s polite of you, Mike, but I prefer that you call me, Nancy.”

  “How about I call you Mom?” he asked.

  No. It was far too soon for that. Mike never understood the concept of boundaries. He lived to impress. He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t stop it with me. He couldn’t stop it when they moved to L.A. to pursue his acting. He couldn’t stop it when he had extra-marital affairs in the hopes of advancing his less-than-marginal career.

  A couple of months into their relationship, I had a heart to heart with Annie, and I told her how I really felt about Mike. But she wouldn’t listen.

  She stomped around my kitchen after a family meal, helping me wash the dishes and slamming a few pots and pans in the pantry next to my stove. “Mike’s wonderful, Mom,” Annie said. “He’s bright, funny, clever, and a decent kisser. And, I’m sick and tired of dating guys who say they’re going to call me and then I wait and I wait. And, eventually I wonder if a guy saying ‘I’m going to call you,’ is secret guy code for ‘I’m going to call you—maybe. I’m going to call you—never. Or, I’m going to call you… sometime before I die. Like the guy will be calling when I’m eighty-two-years-old, hard of hearing, and have forgotten what my lady parts are even there for.”

  “Trust me, you’ll never forget what your lady parts are there for,” I said.

  “I’m all grown up, Mom. I’m not a little girl. I’m not even a stupid twenty-year-old, and I’m finally dating a gentleman. Why can’t you just be happy for me?”

  Because I’m a mother, and mothers have a sixth sense, which after a couple of cocktails, amongst our peers, we call a ‘bullshit-o-meter’. My sixth sense was on fire, screaming that this Mike Piccolino guy was a fraud, a fake, a phony.

  So you tell me? What’s a mother to do?

  Nag your child incessantly that getting married is a very important decision? Yes. Tell your daughter the night before her wedding that her spouse is not as great as she thinks he is? Check. Celebrate her wedding with genuine tears after she ignores you and marries the schlub anyhow because she’s so happy? Yes, again.

  A couple of years later you listen to her sob two thousand miles away from you on the phone when it turns out you’re right—even though you wished like hell you were wrong. And now you pack your sensible luggage to get on a plane, even though flying scares you half to death, and travel to a place you hate in order spend a holiday with your only daughter? You better believe it.

  She’s dating a new guy now. She really likes him. I’m going to check him out. And I’ll kill him if he’s anything like Mike.

  You’d do the same for your daughter, Diary. I just know it.

  Sincerely,

  Nancy Jean Graceland

  Apple Cake by Cheryl Moore

  (Voted by Cheryl’s husband as the best cake ever!!)

  Instructions:

  Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

  Peel and thinly slice approximately five granny smith apples to equal four cups. Spread apples in buttered 13x9x2 inch pan or evenly distribute in 24 cupcake liners for cupcakes.

  Beat three eggs with a mixer until thick. In a separate bowl combine two cups of sugar with one cup of vegetable oil. Pour beaten eggs into this and mix with mixer on medium speed.

  Stir together two cups of flour, three teaspoons of cinnamon, one teaspoon baking soda, and one-half teaspoon of salt; add to egg mixture, add 1 teaspoon vanilla extract (pure not imitation) and beat to mix. Stir in one cup chopped walnuts.

  Pour batter over apples spreading to cover. Don't be alarmed that the batter is kind of thick and doesn't actually ‘easily’ pour over apples use a rubber spatula to distribute batter or your freshly-washed/clean fingers (no one will know.)

  Bake the sheet cake for one hour.

  Bake the cupcakes for 20 - 25 minutes.

  Remove from oven and cool.

  This cake is going to look totally funky, hills and dales but this is normal. This cake is moist and dense except for the top that bakes into a crispy crust, great textures going on here.

  Once cool, frost with cream cheese frosting, oh yes yummy cream cheese frosting, this definitely deserves "the cherry on top of the cake" reference.

  Soften one 8 ounce package of cream cheese and beat till fluffy. Continue beating and slowly beat in 1/3 cup melted butter, then add 2 2/3 cups powdered sugar and 1 teaspoon lemon juice. Spread over cooled cake or cupcakes. YUM!!!!!

  Chapter 25

  Five-Year-Olds

  Julia

  Dear Diary,

  Annie, Grady, and I convened at the wide, pretty beach in the Marina. We left the concrete sidewalk next to the harbor waters, took off our shoes, stumbled through the soft drifts, and now trod down the long strip of hard, cold sand right where America’s west coast met the ocean waters.

  “I’m kind of nervous that I might have messed with a potential crime scene by stealing the refrigerator magnets from Tiffany’s apartment,” Annie said.

  “It’s not a crime scene yet,” I said. “We’ll deal with your indiscretion if it comes to that.” It was an incredibly windy, November day, and the sand literally flew in little spirals through the air. “Maybe we should take this meeting to a restaurant, or a café?” I stopped and slipped on my sunglasses.

  “No. I don’t want anyone overhearing us. Just think of this sandblasting in front of the ocean as a win-win.” Annie scrounged in her purse and slid her Ray-ban Aviator sunglasses onto her face. “We’re getting a free exfoliating facial peel at the same time we inhale fresh ocean air with its negative ions. If we went to a pricey spa they’d charge us five hundred bucks for the two ‘treatments.’”

  “Negative ions are scientifically proven to be healthy and calming. It’s soothing and beautifying all at the same time.” Grady slipped on his geeky writer sunglasses.

  Annie swiveled and glared at a sand castle behind her. “You’re fine, Mack! Stop worrying! You don’t need sunglasses—you’re dead. Jeez, at least Derrick understands this stuff…” she frowned. “Yes, I know you know a lot about everything, Derrick. Maybe it’s time for you to step up to the plate and mentor Mack, because he doesn’t know how to be dead the way you do. You were the self-help author, after all. Could you find it in your beatless heart to help out the new guy?”

  “So both your dead guys are here?” I asked.

  “They’re not ‘my dead guys!’” Annie huffed.

  “Seriously, if we think in the communal spirit,” Grady rubbed his chin, “they’re really… all our dead guys. All of us have benefited from their inspiration, their journeys—”

  “Yeah, John Lennon,” Annie said. “I hear ya, give peace a chance.”

  “This isn’t about peace,” Grady said.

  “Then can we get back to what it’s supposed to be about?” Annie asked. “We’re meeting here to discuss our latest clue and where in the hell do we go from here? Tick-tock, tick-tock. It’s thirty-six hours until Nancy touches down on California soil. I haven’t even cleaned my car yet. I’m not ready for the Mom Death Star to arrive and I’m starting to freak out a little bit.”

  “A little bit?” Grady asked. “You’ve been wound tighter than a married politician after the press discovers he wasn’t hiking the Appalachian Trail. Besides, how can you clean your car when it’s at the shop?”

  “Crap!” Annie threw her hands up in the air. “What if I don’t get my car back in time? How will I pick up Mom at the airport?”

  “I’m normally not the one who says this kind of thing—but everyone here needs to calm down.” I glanced at my watch. They didn’t know this because contrary to popular opinion, I didn’t share everything with my friends, but in a couple of hours I’d be having
my first date with Nikolai Gregosky at an indoor ice-skating rink in Culver City. “Annie, you’re obviously our point person solving Mack’s murder. What do you think about our latest clue?”

  “Well the fact that the WEPOC refrigerator magnet was at the apartment Tiffany was renting can’t be random,” she said. “Besides, Mack felt strongly that he’d been in that space before.”

  “So did I,” Grady said. “Because the vast majority of sixty-year-old L.A. apartments look exactly alike.”

  “But in his defense, Mack can’t put two and two together yet. He feels a little foggy,” Annie said.

  “Aha. I see,” I said. “Tell me more.”

  “Do you think this clue puts Tiffany in the lead to be Mack’s killer?” Annie asked.

  “Hmm,” I said. “Besides hating Mack from a very long time ago, what’s her motive?”

  “I don’t really know.” Annie frowned at a glob of seaweed punctuated with a few tiny, rotting fish that was tossed up on the sand a few yards in front of them. “Ew! Stop! Just because you’re dead, Mack, does not mean you can poke around in that stuff. No. Do not throw it at Derrick! I don’t care if he made fun of your shirt. Oh, for God’s sakes, this is like Dead Guy Daycare. You are not five-year-olds, and I am not your mother!”

  “Great material! Great material!” Grady said to no one in general. “Hey, maybe—Tiffany knows Mack’s killer?”

  “Ah-hah,” I said. “Excellent point. I think you should just toss ideas back and forth and I’ll weigh in when you hit gold.”

  “You’re the best friend, ever,” Annie said, turned, and hugged me.

  Grady held out his arms in front of the two of us. “I agree. Group hug?”

  “Group hug!” I said, we did, and then pulled apart. “Okay, I think we’ve gone far enough down the beach. Let’s walk back, and get the other side of our faces sandblasted. But keep these ideas coming. I’m putting on my official lawyer hat now and will be honing in on any terrific insights that you two come up with.”

  The surf splashed up and splattered against us. Annie shook her finger at the shallow end of ocean water. “There will be no splashing each other! Do you hear me? Stop it, boys!”

  And that’s when I finally tuned them all out. Stuck imaginary fingers in my ears and concentrated on myself instead of squabbling over dead guys, solving murders, and discussing half-baked clues.

  Gosh, Diary. This was, after all, my first date with Nikolai. I had agreed to go ice-skating with him even though I hadn’t skated since I was sixteen-years-old. And yes, I was still incredibly interested in/attracted to/dying to rip the clothes off Devin Dylan.

  But this time? I wasn’t rushing the game. I was playing it cool. I’d called Devin once and left him my phone number. Now it was up to him. Yes, he was following through. I didn’t immediately return his phone calls, e-mails, or texts. I was going to Make. Him. Wait.

  In the meantime I’d cool my heels with Nikolai. According to his FitnessBuff.com dating profile, he was a handsome Russian ex-hockey player. There were worse ways to chill out.

  And if Devin Dylan wanted to date me? Devin Dylan would have to work for it.

  I think you’re a good influence on me, Diary. Let’s get this one done, yes? Every day I spend not being kissed by Devin Dylan is torture.

  Ciao,

  Julia

  Chapter 26

  The Art of Teleportation

  Dr. Derrick

  Dearest Diary,

  Annie gnashed her teeth as she slid her Visa through the credit card machine at the hole-in-the-wall auto repair shop. She could barely make eye contact with the female clerk who sat behind the small, Plexiglas window, and sighed in relief when the message on the screen flashed, “Accepted.”

  “Well, of course it was accepted,” Annie said. “Jeez, I’ve been with this credit card company forever. They send me a ‘Happy Holidays’ salutation every year in my December statement. Why wouldn’t it be accepted?” She eyed her receipt and signed it, her hand quivering as her face blanched white.

  “Deathly tones are not a good look for you,” I said.

  “Have you seen this bill?” She waved it in front of me as we exited the tiny office and walked across greasy patches on the pavement to where her POS car was parked. “It’s enough to feed a small orphanage in a third world country for six months.”

  A muscular, swarthy, oil-streaked mechanic jogged up to her. “Like I told you before, Miss Graceland, we can fix this thing, and fix this thing. But there comes a time when you’re like that little Dutch kid with his finger in the dyke. Eventually he has to take a pee, or do homework, or go to piano lessons. Patching that hole with a little gum isn’t going to hold back the rising waters forever.”

  “I don’t chew gum, Harvey,” Annie said. “How about a couple of those wax earplugs?”

  “Same deal,” Harvey said.

  “How long do you think it’ll last?” Annie asked.

  Harvey shrugged. “A couple of weeks? A couple of months? Half a year tops if you’re really lucky. How’s your luck these days?”

  “Not so good. But, that’s not your fault. Harvey’s Auto Shop is the best repair place on the Westside.” Annie said.

  Harvey opened her car door, and she got in. “I know it’s not good news. I feel awful disappointing you.”

  “No worries.” She started her car and rolled down the window. “Give my best to your mother.”

  “She misses your cupcakes,” Harvey said. “The chocolate cheesecakes were her favorite. Any chance you’ll have your bakery up and running again some time soon?”

  Annie blinked, then smiled back up at him. “No. But tell your Mom she can come over to my place, and we’ll bake a batch.”

  “You’re a sweetie, kiddo.” Harvey headed back inside his small garage. He stopped and swiveled. “Between you and me—I took fifteen percent off that bill. The friend’s and family discount.”

  “Thanks,” Annie said.

  *****

  She wiped a few tears away, and accelerated out of the parking lot onto the bustling four-lane Washington Boulevard.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Yes. No. I think so. I don’t know why this is all getting to me so much.” She hiccupped. “I mean—it’s not like I haven’t been through worse.”

  “Stop moving at the speed of light for a second and add it all up,” I said. “I might have died in a silver thong, and yes, that will forever be to my consternation. But, the majority of the time that I was a living, best-selling, self-help author, I wore custom suits with or without a necktie, or at the least, crisply creased khakis and a high thread count polo shirt. I was properly attired, well respected, and I sold a lot of people superb advice on how to handle their problems. I’m going to give you a little piece of advice right now, even though you probably don’t want to hear it.”

  “I don’t want to hear it.” She abruptly turned left onto a residential side street in Venice lined with tiny bungalows that probably started at a million for a tear down.

  “I’m saying it anyhow.”

  “Can’t hear you.” She shoved one finger in her ear that was closest to me, turned on the radio and sang along loudly to the song “Life is a Highway” by Tom Cochrane.

  “You can sing car songs all day long,” I shouted. “But you need to think about your stress level this past year. Number One: You discovered your husband might have been cheating. Two: You became a suspect in my murder. Three: I encouraged you to help solve my murder.”

  “Encouraged? Try haunted and harangued!” She veered to avoid hitting a squirrel.

  “You’re driving erratically!” I said. “Are you on drugs?”

  “No! You’re making me lose my mind! Maybe I need drugs,” she said.

  “Number Four: You realized you could see and talk to dead people. Five: You lost your business. Six: You solved my murder. Seven: realized your husband really had been cheating on you. Eight: You filed for divorce. Nine: You started dating a new, hu
nky guy.”

  “Raphael’s hot isn’t he?” Annie asked.

  “Oh, yeah. But he’s no Devin Dylan.”

  “He’s just as smoking as Devin Dylan.”

  “Even the Marlboro Man’s not as smoking as Devin Dylan,” I said. “Ten: Other people less interesting than me died in your vicinity and took advantage of your ghost chatting skills.”

  “That’s not fair,” Annie said. “They’ve all been interesting.”

  “Perspective, darling. Not as interesting as me. Number Eleven: Your mother’s coming out to visit for a major holiday. Twelve: You’re still getting divorced. Add it all up. You’re clocking in at five thousand percent on the Richter scale of nervous breakdown levels. I’m surprised you’re still walking.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do!” She threw her hands up in the air.

  “Hands on the wheel!” I said.

  “Right.” She white-knuckled it. “I haven’t solved Mack’s death. Pinky Stein’s running me ragged. My boyfriend doesn’t trust me. He thinks I’m involved in murders.”

  “You are,” I said.

  “Well, not directly,” she said. “And I can’t tell him my reality. He’s such a straight arrow I’m scared he’d break up with me. Mom’s visiting, which is daunting. My car’s dying and my youth is vanishing,” she caught her breath and stifled tears, “right before my eyes.”

  “Sad to say, but your youth vanished when you hit twenty-one.” I said.

  “It’s all going by so fast. I moved here when I was thirty-three. Now I’m thirty-eight and my cat likes a dead guy more than he likes me.” She stifled a few sobs.