“That’s just a phase he’s going through,” I said. “Like preferring tuna giblets to chicken cutlets. Cats are finicky that way.”
She sniffled. “You’re being nice. What’s up?”
“Nothing’s up.”
“You’re never nice to me. You have ulterior motives,” she said.
“Can’t a guy just be nice once in a while?”
“Most guys. That doesn’t include you.”
“Perhaps the Thanksgiving holiday spirit is washing over me like Mack’s new car-scented cologne. When I was shot earlier this year, and then subsequently poisoned shortly after Valentine’s Day, I never expected to be hanging around on the earthly plane for this holiday. Maybe I’ve been a little too morose about this whole death thing. If I’m to successfully pass to the Afterlife, a positive attitude might benefit me. Go Team Positive!”
Annie turned her car onto the little side street that led to her apartment building.
“Turn around,” I circled my index finger. “I’ve got a better idea. An idea that will cheer you up.”
“Time is of the essence. This can’t just be a good idea. It has to be a great idea,” she said.
“Turn,” I said. “It’s great. Trust me.”
She puttered to a stop and hesitantly did a five point turn. “Trusting you.”
“You should have done that a long time ago.” I reached for her hand.
But she yanked it from me. “’Trusting’ does not mean you are allowed to touch me,” she said.
“Fine.” I frowned.
“Fine,” she said.
“Turn left onto Brooks,” I gestured. “And then make a left onto Lincoln.”
“I’m not going back to the used car place!” She thrust her chin out. “I can—no, I will—nurse my vehicle back to life. Om-shanti-om,” she chanted.
“You’re reciting ancient Sanskrit chants to revitalize your dying car?” I asked.
“I live in California. I do yoga. I meditate once a year—where are we going? And we better get there soon, or I’m going home to clean some more. No matter how much I scrub the place, Mom will find the one dusty spot in my apartment.”
“She loves you,” I said.
“She’s a perfectionist.”
“So are you,” I said.
“Then why is my life so imperfect?” she asked.
“Because no one’s life is perfect,” I said. “Otherwise, who would buy self-help books? Turn left!” I pointed. “There. Where all the banners are.”
Annie hit the gas and swerved left in front of a fleet of oncoming traffic.
“Ack!” I screamed.
She punched her brakes in the parking lot, swiveled and flipped her middle finger at the cars that had nearly demolished us. “Hah! We showed you!” She glanced around. “We’re at one of those pricey car cleaning places. A great idea, but I don’t have the bucks for a regular clean plus tip. I own a bucket. I’ll wash it at home. Thanks, anyhow.”
“You might not have the money. But I have an extra coupon for a complimentary $159.00 deep clean and steam, dating from February of this year, right before I was murdered.”
“That’s awesome, Derrick, but how am I going to get it. Knock on your widow’s door and ask your cleaning lady for the coupon?”
“No. You’d have to get through the security gates first. They’d take one look at you and never buzz you in. Look on the floor,” I said. “Toward your seat.”
“No way.” She twisted around the steering wheel and patted the floor with one hand. “Half a granola bar. A parking ticket?” She held it up and squinted. “Oh, crap, it’s late.”
“Keep looking,” I said.
“Two M&Ms.” She popped them in her mouth. “A cat toy and…” she pulled the voucher that was semi-stuck under the bottom of her shoe. “Oh. My. God!” She stared at it. “How did you get this into my car?”
I smiled at her. “What if I told you I moved it here by the power of my intention?”
“I’d tell you that you’re full of shit.”
“What if I told you that I’m learning the art of teleportation? The mysterious transfer of matter and energy from one point to another.”
“I’d tell you that you’re watching too many Star-Trek re-runs.”
I held up my hand and mimicked Spock’s Vulcan salute. “Try that coupon. What’s the worst that could happen? It’ll be one less chore to handle before Mom arrives. Tick-tock.”
She grumbled, but drove forward to the front of the line at Ace Car Cleaners, set her car in park, and rolled down the window.
“What’ll it be, Miss?” the short attendant asked.
She thrust the voucher in his direction. “Will this work for the full Clean and Steam?”
He eyeballed it. “Yup,” he said. “Don’t forget to tip.”
“Absolutely!”
We exited her vehicle and walked toward the cashier’s station. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe it!”
“Miss!” the attendant yelled after her.
“I knew it was too good to be true.” She stopped in her tracks and turned toward him. “Yes?”
“What kind of scent do you want in your car? We have lemon-lime, fresh-laundry, spring rain, new-car—”
“Anything but new car.”
*****
We sat outside the car wash on white plastic lawn chairs facing Lincoln Avenue for about an hour and a half while the techs scoured her car. She watched them and smiled. “Mom’s going to be so happy that I’m picking her up and schlepping her around L.A. in a freshly washed car. Thank you.”
“You’re happy.” I said. “That makes my day. Any closer to solving Mack’s murder?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think it was Devin or Tiffany. I really need to have a talk with Bob Bubeck, Mack’s former father-in-law—that is if he’s still in town. He probably already left and went back to Wisconsin. If that’s the case, I have no idea what to do.”
When Mack McManus materialized in the seat next to her. “That lizard’s still in town. Once a car guy, always a car guy. He’ll be at the Classic Auto Swap Meet at Sam Spade’s Burgers in Studio City, tomorrow afternoon. They’re having a special event.”
“Who has a special event two days before Thanksgiving?” Annie asked. “Crazy people?”
“Car people,” Mack said. “Never underestimate the appeal of a sexy vehicle.”
“Never underestimate how crazy car people are,” I said.
Annie frowned. “I have to work. I don’t know if I can swing it.”
“Bob’s leaving town after the show,” Mack said. “He wants to have turkey day at my house—”
“You mean Bailey’s house,” Annie said.
“You say poTAY-toe,” Mack said. “I say poTAH-toe.”
“The point is Bob’s departing,” I said. “And Mack’s counting on you.”
“No worries.” He leaned in and tried to tickle Annie who screamed and wriggled away from him. “Mack can always stay with Annie for as long as it takes to get the job done. How many months have you been lingering, Derrick?”
“Hmm. I was murdered in February,” I said. “Over nine?”
“Shut up! I’ll do it!” Annie said.
Oh, Diary,
Life can be a little bittersweet at times. Especially for that guy at the garage who dropped his coupon for a free car detailing worth $159.00. It lay on the cement in an oily patch until Annie stepped on it and it stuck to the bottom of her shoe. I love making dreams come true, Diary.
Sincerely,
Dr. Derrick Fuller, Ph.D.
Official Music Video for "Life is a Highway" by Tom Cochrane
Chapter 27
Deadsville
Annie
Dear Diary,
It was two days before Thanksgiving. You’d think everyone would be at the grocery stores buying their turkeys and cranberry and pre-made pumpkin pies. You’d think Mort Feinberg’s Deli would be Deadsville. At least this is what I’d planned on so I could
leave work a few hours early and go to that stupid car show over the hill in Studio City.
But, no, we were slammed. I asked one of my delivery guys about it. He explained that a couple of years ago, Mort noticed that a lot of people were buying the pre-made, healthy Thanksgiving dinners from upscale grocery stores like Gelson’s or Whole Foods. So he instituted the same practice.
Now I was busier in one day than I’d been in my entire life in the restaurant industry. I processed and organized hundreds of sturdy bags packed with boxes filled with partially cooked turkeys and all the fixings for take out customers as well as delivery orders. I’d been doing this for ten hours as my fingers cramped and my arms trembled.
Pinky Stein marched around the restaurant like a shorter, rounder, pastel-colored version of Stalin, barking out orders to the help. I studiously ignored her because, today of all days, I needed to fly under her candy-colored radar.
Mack sat at the counter and tapped his foot on the floor. “Come on! We need to get a move on.”
“Not until my shift’s over. Besides, doesn’t this car event go ’til nine p.m.?”
“No problem. Mack would love to live with you for at least another year.”
That’s when I felt irritation grow rapidly inside my stomach like a bleeding ulcer or even like I was infected with the monster in the movie Alien right as it burst out of that poor guy, John Hurt guy’s stomach and splattered blood and goo on everyone at the dinner table. It dawned on me that my Thanksgiving dinner might possibly be that bad if I didn’t nail Mack’s killer and find a way to send my latest dead guy to the light.
But why was I so upset? Why was I feeling so tserudert, verklempt, tseiakehmert? And, why was I thinking Yiddish words I didn’t even know? Dammit! I was having another stupid empathic reaction! Someone near me was experiencing a ragged patch and I was simply picking up on his or her shroyft emotions.
Let it go, Annie. I told myself. You have bigger fish to fry; a killer to catch.
I gazed up at the large clock on the wall, realized my shift had ended ten minutes earlier, and that I was free to leave. “I’m out of here, guys,” I told my crew bustling like worker bees behind me. “Everything’s labeled with names, delivery addresses, e-mails, phone, and order numbers. Any problems try your very best not to call me unless it’s an emergency. I’m sure I’ll see you all before the great day, but if I don’t, Happy Thanksgiving! You’re the best!”
I turned to leave but Pinky Stein squared off in front of me, one eye twitching as she blocked my way. I figured out who was shroyft. She mimed putting a phone to her ear. “911,” she said in a man’s alto voice. “What’s your emergency?”
“Oh,” she said in her own voice. “My boss’s most trusted employee is departing the job early, not only violating her employment agreement, but leaving all of her co-workers in the lurch on our second busiest day of the year.”
“It’s after six p.m.,” I said. “I’ve been here for over ten hours. I actually arrived early to help out.”
“How kind of you, Mother Theresa,” Pinky Stein said. “We’re over-booked and under-staffed. You can’t find it in the goodness of your heart to stay another two hours?”
“I really wish I could,” I said. “But honestly, I promised a friend I’d help him out.”
“By going to a car show in the Valley?” she asked.
“It’s really important,” I said.
“Is it a car show for the hungry, the poor, the lepers, and the orphans? Yes, I overheard you talking into thin air, again.”
“Apparently you don’t realize that I multi-task.” I was so tempted to bop her on the forehead, but instead I flicked the tiny hoop that decorated my left ear. “This might look like a simple huggie earring, but it’s actually a stylish Bluetooth phone. I don’t just randomly (I finger quoted) ‘talk to myself.’”
I would prefer Pinky think I was nuts than confide that I talked to ghosts.
She frowned. “If one pumpkin pie gets delivered to one customer who ordered pecan or peach—you’ve got a big fat problem on your hands, my friend.”
“Oy gevalt!” I threw my hands up in the air. “I’ll cross that bridge if we come to it. Let me remind you of the same words you lovingly shared we me numerous times in our brief history—we are not friends.” I swerved to her left, strode around her, broke into a sprint, and exited the building.
*****
It took us an hour to crawl over the hill in bumper-to-bumper traffic from Beverly Hills into the Valley. We finally descended the twists and turns of the mansion studded Coldwater Canyon, and turned right into the packed traffic onto Ventura Boulevard.
“Wow!” Mack gazed out the window. “It’s even grander than I thought!”
“What’s grand?” I peeked at the thoroughfare lined with restaurants, yoga studios, grocery stores, synagogues, and trendy, over-priced boutiques.
“Ventura Boulevard!” Mack said. “It runs over eighteen miles in the San Fernando Valley and at one point, it was part of the trail between the original California Spanish missions. I planned on seeing it during my trip, but my lifelong dream was squashed after I was run over.”
I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “It’s 7:30,” I said. “I hope we haven’t missed your ex-father-in-law.”
“Mack can’t wait to spend Thanksgiving with you and your mother. Do you think she’ll like it when I share the fold out couch with her? Or do I get to cuddle with you on the air mattress?”
I grimaced. “We’re going to nail Bob Bubeck or whoever your real killer is. I called Grady and Julia earlier and asked if they could help. Grady’s a maybe. Julia was super-enthusiastic about showing up and helping. I’m kind of surprised because she didn’t seem all that keen on supporting us when we were at the beach.”
“Julia’s got a crush on Devin Dylan,” Mack said.
“Julia’s got a crush on half the men in Los Angeles,” I said.
“Yeah there, but Devin Dylan’s crushing on her right back. Mack can see these things. Mack isn’t stupid you know. Hey—look over there on the left. See the lot with all the cars and the bright lights overhead?”
“You mean the Ralph’s grocery store?”
“No. The one next to it that’s lit up like a gigantic Christmas tree.”
“The Christmas tree lot? I can’t believe someone has a Christmas tree lot up already,” I said. “It’s not even Thanksgiving, yet.”
“No, the one with the burger joint in front and all the parked classic cars in the lot on the sides and in the back.”
“Got it.” I slowed down and eased into the center lane.
“Turn, turn!” Mack jabbed his hand in front of my face. “We’ve finally got a break.”
“Okay!” I yanked the wheel hard to the left and we sprung boldly in front of oncoming traffic when the engine sputtered, and my car slowed down.
A pack of headlights shone through the passenger window into my car’s interior and we winced.
“Gun it!” Mack said.
“I am!” I punched the gas pedal, but the engine made grinding noises.
A hundred approaching car drivers honked their horns.
“Jeez!” Mack slapped his hands over his ears.
“Gah!” I slammed my foot on the gas, but the engine now made noises like, “Wompy, wompy, huh, hisss, hate you, sighhh.”
And then my beloved, POS car died in the middle of Ventura Boulevard in front of an oncoming line of cars that resembled the Green Bay Packers offensive line on a good day.
Mack and I looked at each other as our eyes widened, and we screamed.
*****
Fifteen minutes later, a couple of good Samaritans helped me push my car across the last westbound lane of Ventura and next to the curb. “Thank you so much!” I handed each of them my card and waved goodbye. “Please e-mail or text me if you ever need freshly baked goods, or a favor that doesn’t involve happy endings.”
To say I felt like crap was an understatement. I called AA
A and burst into tears. The operator told me it was normal to feel super sad. She asked me where I wanted my car towed and then apologized because it would take about an hour for a driver to get to me.
“Harvey’s Auto Shop in the Marina.” I hiccupped and gave her the address.
“We’ll call you at this number right before our driver arrives,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“Mack feels bad for you, Annie. I’m going to find Bob Bubeck before he gets away. See you on the lot.” He walked off.
I called Harvey and left a message. He texted me back, apologized and said to tell the AAA driver to leave the car on the street next to his place, but slip the key in the drop box attached to the security fence.
“Thanks,” I replied.
“Is tim 4 a nu car,” he texted.
I responded with a sad face emoji.
How was I going to pick my Mom up at the airport, Diary? How would we get around town? Do you realize how awful public transportation is in L.A.? It’s not like Milwaukee, for Pete’s sake. Mom and I would spend her entire trip waiting on buses and seated next to serial killers.
When Grady and Julia walked up with Devin Dylan, his protective hand cupped under her elbow. My eyes widened and I tried not to look surprised.
“Grady, you made it,” I said.
“I needed a break from the writing,” he said. “I’ve been at the Sherman Oaks library all day. Not as nice as downtown, but it had great sunlight and a fascinating group of people.”
“You okay?” Julia asked.
“Super,” I said. “Is Bob Bubeck here?”
“Oh yeah,” she said.
“He’s sauntering around the lot, checking out all the cars like he’s Mr. High Roller at the craps table,” Grady said.
“Based on his body language, I think Mr. Bubeck only has eyes for one car,” Devin said. “It’s a 1959 Cadillac Series 62 hot red convertible. Strangely enough, Mack talked about the same car the night we were out on the town together. Said it was his dream car, and that if everything went according to plan—he’d be driving that baby soon.”
Cupcakes, Diaries, and Rotten Inquiries: A Romantic, Comedic Annie Graceland Mystery, #6 Page 12