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

by Pamela DuMond

  Julia

  Dear Diary,

  I had a lovely Thanksgiving dinner at Devin’s parents’ home. The day was perfect until the end, which was pretty awful.

  Devin’s mother and father are extraordinarily kind people who live in a sprawling five-thousand square foot home on a double lot in Artesia, a suburb of Los Angeles. They own a chain of Eastern Indian general merchandise stores and supply every yoga studio in North America with gorgeous Indian textiles, furniture, and art.

  After we enjoyed the main entrees that included roast turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, turkey tikka masala, and saag, Devin’s family Skyped with his grandmother, Chandani, who lives in Mumbai. He even introduced me to her. Yikes! I met the parents and the grandmother on the same day. Someone pour me a cocktail. Oh, right, his mom already did—a Pimm’s Cocktail. Between his English mother, Beatrice, his dad, Sanjay, and Chandani, I could see where Devin got his good looks.

  Devin treats me like a princess. He calls when he says he’s going to call. He’s affectionate, funny, kind. And the sex? I’m not even going to tell you the details, because it would only make you jealous. Everything about Devin feels different than the rest of the guys I’ve been dating: cleaner, more honest, hopeful.

  After dessert he and his dad, older cousins, and uncles went into the very large living room to watch a football game. The young kids were encouraged to go outside and play. The teenagers were tasked with clearing the table before they, too, made a break for the back yard. Beatrice and her friends put leftovers into Tupperware containers and stored them in the fridge. I offered to help but she just waved her hand at me. “We’re so happy you joined us. You’re our treasured guest. Just enjoy your time with Devin. We’re going to miss him so much when he leaves town next week.”

  My hand flew to my chest. “What? For how long?”

  “Hopefully less than a year,” she said and peered at me. “Oh bloody hell, he hasn’t told you yet.” She slammed a clean pot on the stove. “It only just came up. I’m sorry…”

  Devin poked his head in the kitchen and smiled at me. “The kitchen’s way more interesting than football—”

  “You’re leaving?” I asked.

  He quickly frowned but held out his hand to me.

  We walked into the hallway where he broke the news to me that he’s leaving town for at least six months to attend to the family business in Mumbai. Chandani had recently hired a company to help manage the business, but they were siphoning off funds. They had only uncovered the fraud this very week. Devin was going to tell me tomorrow. He hadn’t wanted to ruin today.

  *****

  I felt my heart crumple in my chest, excused myself, wandered out of the gargantuan house, sat down on the back porch and watched the kids play on the jungle gym and the teens compete in a game of hoops.

  Things had been going so well between us. We were kind to each other, we had rapport, and our chemistry was through the roof. Was this it? Should I just let it go?

  Devin stepped outside, sat down next to me, took my hand, and traced the lines on my palm. “I know what you’re thinking. That we just met, and long distance never works, and that you want to move on with your life. You want that next step.”

  I wiped back a few tears with the back of my other hand, looked down at my feet and nodded. “You’re a great guy.”

  “And you’re a great girl,” he placed one tan finger under my chin and raised it up so I couldn’t help but stare into his luscious, dark brown eyes. He brushed a few wisps of my blonde hair off my cheek and tucked them gently behind my ear. He ran his finger across my cheek and then traced it across my lips.

  “Get a room!” One of the teenage boys hollered.

  “Get your own girlfriend,” Devin said and turned back to me. “Let’s talk about this.”

  “I need a few minutes alone,” I said. “I need to think. Go. I’ll find you back inside in just a bit.”

  He kissed my forehead, got up, and walked back into the house.

  *****

  Devin dropped me off at my apartment and it’s nighttime now. Even though he’s leaving in a week, I didn’t invite him in because I just didn’t want him staying over tonight.

  In the meantime, I promised you, Diary, an update on all my dates. Now that Mack’s murder has been resolved, and according to Annie, he’s passed—this is as good a moment as any.

  After dating David Bernstein for nine days, the attorney who I met at Chaz on Main Street, I discovered he was not even close to being divorced. He was flirting with the idea of separating from his wife, and was simply ‘trying out’ dating to see what it would ‘feel like’ if he did that. I told him to feel free to lose my number immediately, and not find it should he eventually get separated or divorced—for real.

  Pierre LePeuf, the Beauty Rep, who I almost, but ultimately, did not meet at Vito’s Ristorante, contacted me a month after vacating the dining establishment with the young, tatted booby blonde, who was clearly not me. I thanked him for his renewed interest, but informed him my attention had shifted from French culture to all things Italiano, including young, buff Italian men. Au revoir, Pierre.

  And then there was Nikolai Gregosky, the former hockey player. Nikolai had a big smile and a big infectious laugh. Considering all his bragging about how many models he dated during our first and only date, he probably had big infections elsewhere in his body. Not for me.

  Back to Devin. I thought I found a keeper—and maybe I did? Right now my heart’s a little torn. Who knows? He wants to Skype, text, and write. He says we can get to know each other even better. It could be positively old-fashioned and romantic. Or perhaps the long distance curse will prevail, and we will simply grow apart. But you don’t know until you try. And we are both willing to try.

  I know many people write in your pages, Dear Diary, to pen romantic stories, confessions of lust, and chronicle their dating adventures. In the meantime, I’m not willing to give up on my quest for love.

  I’m sure you’ve heard this all before, but I thank you for your time, your gentle ear, and your soft pages that quickly absorbed the few tears that I’ve shed.

  Ti adoro,

  Julia

  Chapter 33

  Please Chew Slowly

  Dr. Derrick

  Dearest Diary,

  Perhaps, now you understand my frustration with life after death. To clarify—that would be life after death before passing to the Afterlife.

  Mack ‘The Man’ McManus experienced his “Paradise by the Dashboard” light when he stepped into that big Headlight in the Sky and passed to his version of Heaven. I am left behind on this earthly plane, dealing with fools and morons, and quite frankly, feeling envious. But, good for Mack. At the very least, I now have an alliance that might be pulling for me from the other side.

  I was exceedingly glum on Thanksgiving Day when I sat in an ‘empty’ chair around the very large tables cobbled against each other in Mort Feinberg’s back back kitchen. The party consisted of Mort, his crew, a few aging celebrities (whose extensive plastic surgeries were not executed as perfectly as mine,) Annie, her mother, and the hot cop she was dating. Her friend, the aspiring novelist/screenwriter/who-really-cares-at-this-point, Grady, sat with his boyfriend at the children’s table.

  The main dining tables were crowded with food as well as party guests who sat around them. So when an underling attempted to remove my chair, Annie shouted, “No! Leave that chair alone.”

  “Why?” the underling asked. “We need more room.”

  “Because that chair’s meant to be there for someone important. Someone we will always need. Someone people will always remember and… respect.” She looked down at her plate, stabbed a broccoli floret, dipped it in mashed potatoes, stuck it in her mouth, and wolfed it down.

  “How many times have I told you to chew slowly?” her mother asked. “It’s better for your jaw as well as your waistline.”

  “I like her waistline,” Raphael pinched her waist and she gig
gled.

  Mort gazed at Annie. “The table’s crowded, kiddo. We really could use some extra elbow room.”

  The Thanksgiving crowd hushed, looked at Annie and waited for her answer.

  “Fine!” I said. “Fine! I know you all don’t care about the dead. I’ll leave.” I leapt out of my chair. “I’ll go to a park or something. I’ll hang out with the squirrels and other filthy rodents. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I always am.”

  Annie cleared her throat and pinched the bridge of her nose nervously. “I’m not Jewish, but I think I was in a past life,” she said. “Isn’t there a Jewish tradition where an empty chair is left for Moses?”

  “You mean the prophet, Elijah,” Pinky said. “It’s old school tradition commonly used in Seders. We celebrated Shabbat when I was growing up, and we always kept an empty chair for Elijah.”

  “In my parent’s house too!” Mort’s wife said. “I loved that tradition.”

  Mort took a sip of wine, pointed at my seat, and said to the underling, “Keep the chair right there, sir. I hate to think we wouldn’t have room for Elijah. In fact, could someone pour a glass of wine and put it on the table in front of that place setting? I think that today of all days, we should extend this magical tradition to include Thanksgiving. Keep an open space for those who are not here with us today in physical form, but are here in spirit, and will forever remain in our hearts.”

  Annie tilted her head and gazed at Pinky Stein. “Do you want to grab a cappuccino someday?”

  “I’d love to,” Pinky said. “I’m buying.”

  I must admit I teared up a bit. While I wished with all my heart to pass to the Afterlife, I was still, somehow, held to this earthly plane. Although I no longer existed in human form, perhaps I had more to accomplish on earth. That said, does it really surprise you that a being as strong as I would simply fade away like your average deceased mortal? No, Diary. I would prefer to be remembered like Elijah and I climbed back into his chair.

  Annie lifted her glass to me and toasted. “Happy Thanksgiving,” she said.

  The rest of the diners lifted their glasses, toasted, and chimed in, “Happy Thanksgiving!”

  I wish I could lift Elijah’s glass but I couldn’t. Instead I would fill his chair with dignity, perfect posture, and a hint of a sexy mystery, until Annie Graceland gets her two-bit act together and finds a way for me to pass to my version of Heaven.

  In parting, Dearest Diary, I know from being a world-renowned self-help author and motivational speaker, that at times you probably feel somewhat inadequate. Perhaps you believe that you are simply a blank slate until someone fills in your pages. Don’t let anyone put you down.

  Remember that you’re still a real book, after all. Keep your chin up. Show some self-respect.

  And, who knows? Now that I’ve written in your pages—even you might become a best-seller someday.

  My very best,

  Dr. Derrick Fuller, Ph.D.

  Chapter 34

  Joshua Bankman’s Very Scary Day

  Grady

  Dear Finley,

  Yay! I can’t believe it. I finished #NaNoWriMo ahead of time. What an exhausting, exciting, and amazing experience. I know that I have extensive rewrites ahead of me, but to have actually written my first novel, have it on my computer, tucked into Dropbox for safe keeping, and printed out in double-spaced word documents to hand to beta-readers—well, frankly, I never even dreamt this day would be possible.

  I’ve got to give Julia credit. She read my pages after Annie freaked out that I was writing something too close to her actual life. It was Julia who suggested I make my hero a twelve-year-old boy instead of an adult. Never in a thousand years would I have thought of this twist, and yet, it was the perfect note. I wrote a middle-grade mystery. I am thrilled.

  Now, Liam and I are seated at the kid’s table at Mort Feinberg’s annual Thanksgiving celebration, and the kids encouraged me to share my story with them. I have my first wide-eyed, captive audience as I tell them about Joshua Bankman’s Very Scary Day.

  I’m a novelist, Finley! Whether I choose to self-publish or seek out a lit agent and pursue a traditional route for this book—I’m a novelist. Wow! Color me happy.

  I’m not sure this would have been possible without your help, Finley. But I know in the months ahead, I probably won’t be penning as many entries into your pages as I have been during #NaNoWriMo month. I don’t want you to think that I don’t appreciate you and all of your support. I do. This has been an amazing time period for me.

  So, even if I put you on the shelf for a few months, please know that some day I’ll turn around and say, “Hey, I haven’t talked to Finley in a while!”

  I’ll pull out your gorgeous binder, flip open your pages, and we will catch up. Because, Finley, we will always be friends. I do believe that’s in our cards. And thank you; thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  Your forever friend,

  Grady Swenson

  Chapter 35

  Thanks for all the Giving

  Annie

  Dear Diary,

  The tabloids and TV gossip shows perpetuate the myth that people who live in L.A. are fancy and pretentious. I find it a bit odd that these sites inundate us with clips of drunken celebrities and forget to share that the majority of people who reside in So-Cal, famous or not, lead down-to-earth lives. We are simple, we are normal; we are family.

  Today, my L.A. extended, eclectic family gathers at Mort Feinberg’s for a Thanksgiving Day feast and celebration. Mort’s crowd includes his relatives, a smattering of friends, his employees, as well as their family members and loved ones.

  I sat on a folding chair at one of the long, skinny, portable dining tables stacked flush against each other like Legos in the back back kitchen at Mort Feinberg’s Famous Deli smack-dab in the center of Beverly Hills, California, 90210. The tabletops were filled with platters of turkey, dressing, green beans and almonds, a few different kinds of tossed salads, mashed potatoes—regular as well as sweet—and five varieties of rolls and bread, and gravy boats. I knew that there were counters in the other room filled with freshly prepared desserts.

  My mother, Nancy, was seated to my left and my boyfriend, Raphael, on my right.

  Because it’s a California Thanksgiving—the kids have their own tables on the side that even extend onto the outdoor dining patio. The heat lamps were turned on, as the day was slightly chilly. Grady and his boyfriend Liam sat with the kids.

  Grady regaled his new, wide-eyed audience with the story he wrote in his middle-grade mystery, Joshua Bankman’s Very Scary Day, (think Nancy Drew meets the Hardy Boys.) His protagonist is a twelve-year-old boy who’s known forever that he’s gay but discovers he can see and talk to ghosts. And, yes—I’m cool with that.

  Julia’s spending the holiday with Devin and meeting his family. He’s getting me a great deal on a used car, but that’s not the only reason I like him. He seems to genuinely care about Julia. Who knows? After all these years she’s been looking for Mr. Right, she might have actually found him. Boy, I hope so.

  I’m supposed to be thankful today, and I was—but my feelings are a bit all over the map. I gazed at my mother. Nancy smiled, giggled, and talked animatedly with Mort’s wife, Eva, who sat across from her. They’re comparing recipes and family gossip. (Thankfully, not mine, for a change) I’m grateful that I’m spending Thanksgiving with my beloved mother, who drives me crazy who I love very much. She’s seventy. How many more holidays would we share? Since I discovered this year that I could talk to ghosts, I’ve also realized that life is too short.

  Life is crazy, heartbreaking, lovely, and fragile. You’d better appreciate every single second because the days that make up the years that we call a lifetime are fleeting. You blink your eyes and ten years pass. You blink again and twenty more slip by.

  That said, I’m grateful that we solved Mack McManus’s murder and thrilled that he passed to the Afterlife. I wish Derrick had transitioned as we
ll, but unfortunately that doesn’t seem to be in his cards yet. I glanced across the table at him, raised my wine glass, and said, “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  Mort noticed and raised his glass. The next thing I knew, all the diners lifted their glasses, toasted, and chimed in, “Happy Thanksgiving!”

  “I can’t lift the glass,” Derrick said. “Let’s just pretend I am. Happy Thanksgiving, Annie. How’s the dressing?”

  “It’s great,” I said.

  “It is great, isn’t it?” Raphael squeezed my hand under the table, and kissed me on the cheek.

  I leaned in and whispered that I had a very special Thanksgiving gift planned for him once Mom departed L.A. I hoped he still liked whipped cream and dark chocolate, and yes, I finally tracked down those cupcake print silken restraints.

  He kissed me for a few moments longer than proper, pulled away, and winked. He squeezed my knee, ran his fingers up and down my thigh, gave me goosebumps on my arms as well as my girly parts, and said, “I love you, Annie.”

  “What?!” I exclaimed.

  “You heard me,” he said.

  “Say it again.”

  “I love you, Annie Rose Graceland.”

  At first I was speechless, but then I found myself saying the same words back to him in hushed tones, “I love you, too. I love you, Raphael Campillio.”

  “Oh for God’s sakes,” Derrick said. “Enough with the PDA. No one wants to hear it. No one wants to see it. I just want some dressing, please. If you could finagle that, I’d be eternally grateful. And maybe some of the mashed potatoes with a little gravy. And, let me tell you one more thing. Just one final piece of advice, and then I swear, I’ll be quiet…”