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

by Pamela DuMond

  I wondered what it would be like if I could be a princess—of anything? Didn’t even have to be full-time. Could totally be a part-time gig? I slugged the remainder of my glass of wine and nodded off.

  And I dreamt of a stone castle with fog ringing its turrets. I wore a long white gown and raced, my breath ragged, across a steep drawbridge as uniformed men raised it. I leapt over the top and suddenly I was holding tight to a muscular man, my arms wrapped around his waist on the back of a motorcycle. We sped along mountainous roads that curved around mist-covered lakes and meadows with knee-deep wildflowers that poked out of melting snowdrifts.

  We slowed, pulled to the side of the road and the man offered me his hand. I stepped off the bike and gazed up at him. He felt so warm and familiar—as if I had known him for an eternity. I didn’t even know his name and yet I did know two things:

  Number one: he had the bluest eyes and the blackest hair I’d ever seen in my life. Number two: I was completely, one hundred and fifty percent, in love with him.

  Chapter 4

  I woke up the next day and blinked my eyes open. The sun peeked around my curtains, attempting to melt my windows. Another glorious, Midwestern, summer day! Well—it would have been glorious except it was already ninety degrees with ninety percent humidity.

  I stretched in my small lumpy bed, did wrist circles, then ankle circles and mentally reviewed my daily itinerary. Number one: Coffee. Number two: Check e-mails. Three: Call Uncle John. Four: Go to work. Hold on. Something was off with work…

  When the whole freaking nightmare crashed into my brain. I was job-less, broke, owed money out the yin-yang and had no idea how I’d survive a week, let alone the month. I gave my head a shake, hopped out of bed, walked into the kitchen, made coffee and checked e-mails.

  Hello.

  I’d gotten a response from the part-time job people who wanted a smart blonde who knew sports, liked older people, could think on her feet and was cool with traveling. They admitted their interview request was last minute, but wanted to know if I could meet them today at noon in downtown Chicago. If I responded promptly and said “Yes,” they’d e-mail me the specific address.

  I hit the reply key so fast it broke the acrylic nail on my index finger. “Yes.” I typed. “I would love to interview for your job today at noon. Thanks for considering me!!!” I added several smiley face emoticons to really drive the point home.

  I shook my hands and paced. What should I wear to my job interview? Conservative? Sexy? Classy? Concentrate Lucy. Concentrate. This would totally depend on who was interviewing me and where that meeting would be held. I grabbed the printout and re-read the job description. These folks were incredibly specific and I surmised they might be a little uptight.

  I had one pastel skirt and jacket suit from Cheswick’s of Boston. There couldn’t be a conservative interviewer on the planet that wouldn’t appreciate Cheswick’s. A blister erupted on my foot from the nasty high heels I’d been forced to wear at MadDog, so I paired my pretty outfit with pastel Keds. Who didn’t love Keds?

  I stood on the sidewalk on the curve of Lake Shore Drive peppered with swanky high-rise buildings as it rounded the bend of Oak Street Beach and headed north.

  Oak Street Beach was a narrow patch of pricey sand filled with tourists and posers and families. Lapping onto its shores was the grand mama herself—Lake Michigan—a body of water so large she was called Great. I held the printout in my hand and gazed up at the Drake Hotel.

  The Drake was approximately twenty stories tall, majestic and reeked of old school fancy. This hotel had been around forever and was practically a Chicago institution. Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio had carved their newly wed names into the booth at the Cape Cod Room, the in-house seafood restaurant. Princess Diana stayed here on her only visit to Chicago.

  Whoever the hell held a job interview in this place had to be interesting, let alone have the bucks to pay decent part-time wages. I crossed my fingers as I jogged across the intersection.

  I examined the address on the printout. The interview wasn’t just taking place in the Drake: it was being conducted in a Penthouse suite. Jeeza-Louisa. I shook my head, cracked my knuckles and wondered who in the hell advertised on Daveslist and still had the bucks to hold a job interview at this swanky joint?

  Perhaps the part-time job people were millionaires? Or drug dealers? Maybe they were millionaire drug-dealers with a lucrative side business selling twenty-something women into sex-slavery? But that didn’t make sense—didn’t sex-slaver types usually deal in skinny girls with big boobs? I was far from being a twizzle-stick. Oh jeez, I was totally over-thinking this thing. I closed my eyes, gathered my courage, crossed myself and entered the hotel’s front doors.

  I knocked on the solid wood door to Penthouse #5. Took a deep breath, ran my fingers through my waist-length hair and tucked a few errant wisps behind my ears. I fished through my purse, snagged my Maybelline Perfect-in-Pink Super Sparkly Lip-gloss, applied it and smacked my lips when the suite door flew open.

  A late sixty-something, robust, crinkly-faced man with a full head of silver hair, wearing thick, black-rimmed glasses stood in the doorway and regarded me. “You must be Miss Lucille Marie Trabbicio.” He extended his hand.

  “Yes.” I nodded, shook his hand and for some strange reason was tempted to curtsey. “But you can call me Lucy.”

  “I prefer Lucille. Do come in.” He opened the door to the suite a tad wider. “My name is Mister Philip Philips.”

  “Mr. Philip Philips?” I blinked.

  He sighed. “It’s a family name. You may call me Mr. Philips. We’ve been on our tip-toes with excitement, eagerly anticipating your arrival.” He pushed himself to his tiptoes for a millisecond and then dropped back down on his heels. He wore a sweater vest on top of his long-sleeve, crisp cotton shirt.

  A sweater vest in the beginning of June, in Chicago—seriously?

  “Wow. That’s awesome. I’m so… honored to hear that.” I entered the penthouse living room. There were sweeping northern views of the lake, the Gold Coast, DePaul University and Lake Shore Drive as it wound past beaches and parks. Hell, I could even see the pink towers of the famous Edgewater apartment complex miles up the Drive.

  “I admit that I am a recent visitor to Chicago. It is a magnificent town,” Mr. Philips said. “Stunning architecture. World-class culinary adventures. A robust art scene, as well as a music mecca.” He pulled a monogrammed handkerchief with a large letter ‘P’ from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. “But the weather can be daunting.” He folded his hankie and placed it back in his pocket. “Might I offer you a cooling drink, Lucille?”

  “Water’s perfect. Thanks. But you don’t have to wait on me. I’ll help myself.” I walked a few feet around the mahogany-colored bar, knelt down and opened the mini-fridge. It was stocked with Evian, Pellegrino, two bottles of Cristal champagne and a clear, glass container that contained pea-green liquid. I peered up at him. “Can I get you something, Mr. Philips?”

  He shook his head. I grabbed a Pellegrino, stood up, twisted the cap open, took a slug and fanned my sweaty cleavage. Phew, summer was arriving early in the Windy City.

  Mr. Philips plucked a file off an immaculate desk. There were ten folders on the right side of the desk and probably over two hundred divided into five neat stacks on the left side. “Do have a seat.” He gestured to a pretty loveseat next to the window. “I insist.”

  He seemed a little uptight. But heck, based on those sky-high stacks of files on the desk, he’d probably been through a ton of job applications and was likely exhausted. I plunked down, took a load off and took another drink of my bubbly water.

  “We are in receipt of your Internet application. You signed the waiver for a background check, which we have performed,” he said.

  I swallowed and hoped the incident in MadDog hadn’t shown up. Or that time I shoplifted the blue eye shadow on a dare from Walgreens when I was thirteen. That was supposed to have been expunged from my
record. Or that thing when I was eleven years old and Suzy Delaney started a rumor at my middle school that my mom had left us because she realized all the other middle-grade kids were cuter and smarter than I was. I wasn’t the only kid Suzy Delaney mean-girled. But I was the only one who decked her.

  “Your criminal record is clean which is a must for us—”

  “I knew that,” I said.

  I totally didn’t know that.

  “Or you wouldn’t be seated on that settee right now.”

  I glanced down. “You mean the love seat?”

  He regarded me thoughtfully. “The settee.”

  “Right… the small couch? I mean... I assumed that… I would never apply for this position if I didn’t feel that my qualifications matched the employer’s expectations.”

  He nodded, opened my file and paged through it. “Lucille Marie Trabbicio. You were an A student in high school but dropped out at the tender age of seventeen before the end of your junior year. You earned your GED when you were nineteen. You’re currently enrolled at Columbia Technical Academy in pursuit of your career as a licensed nurse practitioner. Is this correct?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Why did he pronounce every syllable of ‘Lice end nerz prac tition er’ like it was a disease instead of a healing profession?

  “That sounds right,” I said.

  “Do you have time for a part-time summer job?”

  Could I survive without a part-time job would be the better question?

  “Absolutely, Mr. Philips. I’m not taking any pre-req nursing courses this summer as I decided to focus on…”

  Aw frick. What the hell was I focusing on?

  “Volunteering for Save the Environment organizations and the search for world peace. Yes, sir, I absolutely have the time and energy for a part-time summer job!”

  “World peace?”

  I nodded. “It’s one of my most cherished dreams, sir.”

  Mr. Philips snapped my file shut. “I never assume, so I will ask you directly.” He dropped it onto the desk where it landed half on, half off—teetering. “Why do you want this job Miss Trabbicio?”

  I’d been on such a roller coaster the past couple of days, let alone the past four years, that I tried to think of something stellar to hit him with. “I’m broke,” didn’t sound great. “I don’t want to be a prostitute,” was a weak close second. “I could possibly qualify as a female mud wrestler, but I feared I’d spend a fortune at the Laundromat,” trailed in third.

  I played back the job description in my head. In all honesty, it was a little vague. So—I punted. “In answer to your question, Mr. Philips. I like older people and I’m more than capable of thinking on my feet. I know a little about football, baseball, basketball, hockey, shuffleboard, ping-pong, blackjack and riding motorcycles.

  He sniffed.

  “I’m a hard worker, determined. I persevere. I’m loyal as long as the people I trust are loyal and forthcoming with me. I turn the other cheek three times. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me a third time, well, shame on the both of us. But the fourth time—I’m usually done.”

  “Ah-hah,” he said.

  “People have described me as… (The word ‘bitch’ came to mind but I didn’t think that was the best word to use here) …feisty.”

  He looked at me and raised one eyebrow and cleared his throat. “Excuse me for one moment,” he said. “I feel a bit parched. I’d like that Pellegrino after all. Thank you.”

  I got up from the ‘settee’, walked behind the bar, pulled open the door to the mini-fridge, grabbed a Pellegrino and unscrewed the top. “Would you like that on the rocks and with a lime or a lemon? Or straight up?”

  “On the rocks with a slice of lime, thank you.”

  I opened the ice container, plucked out a few cubes with tongs, dropped them into a glass and poured the water on top. Grabbed a lime from the fridge and chopped it quickly on a small butcher block on top of the bar. I dropped a wedge in the drink, stuck another on the glass rim and handed it to him.

  “Thank you.” He sipped.

  “Perhaps, Mr. Philips, you could tell me why I should want this job,” I said. “Because, no offense? Right now you all are shrouded in mystery. I don’t really know what this job is, what you’re paying, or what I need to do. And frankly, as much as I like to read mysteries and adore watching them on TV? I’m a practical girl. While I’m dying to find the perfect part-time summer job? I’m not sure I’m up for more mysteries in my life right now.”

  He blinked. “I see.” He placed his drink on a coaster on a side-table. “Thank you for coming here today, Miss Trabbicio. I am so sorry but we will not be needing your services.” He stood up, walked to the front door of the suite, opened it and gestured with one hand to the hallway. “I wish you nothing but the best of luck in your future.”

  My heart sunk. “But, but…”

  “We are very practical people as well. I apologize for any inconvenience this might have caused you.”

  Another rejection. Another waste of time. I slunk toward the door.

  “Wait a moment, Miss Trabbicio.” He extracted a leather wallet from his pocket, snapped it open and held out a crisp one hundred-dollar bill. “I trust this will cover your travel expenses.”

  Chapter 5

  I gazed hesitantly at that hundred-dollar bill. I felt like a hooker accepting a tip. But I had to keep my Uncle John at the Vail Assisted Living this month, next month and pay for my subway ride back to the south side.

  I pulled the bill from his hand. “Thanks for the opportunity.” I walked into the hallway and blinked back a few tears. I had a Tupperware container of mac and cheese in the fridge, which if the electric company didn’t shut off my service, should last me a couple of days. Maybe Subway was hiring?

  Mr. Philips’s phone buzzed from the bar counter. He picked it up and put it to his ear. “Yes, Lady Elizabeth. I made a calculated decision based on…” He squinted at me. “Yes, I see your point…” he winced and held the phone away from his ear. “Of course I understand how stressful this has been for you… No, I did not realize you had been fitted for a mouth guard because you were bruxating and diagnosed with TMJ disorder.”

  I tried not to stare at Mr. Philips and his sweater vest as I punched the elevator button. Okay, truth be told, I slammed it five times because this was humiliating and I had to get the hell out of here. Now. I gazed up at the bank of elevator lights and realized they were stopping on Every. Single. Dang. Floor on their way up to the Penthouse.

  Finally a light indicated there was a car just one story below me. I glared at its tiny beam, willed it to move, but it simply squatted there like it had all the time in the world. I hit the elevator button with my fist: Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Ding! The Penthouse button light flashed. I took a deep breath. Escape was in sight. The doors slid open and I slipped into the tiny, pristine cubicle and pushed the Lobby button. I slumped against the side of the upholstered cage and dropped my head in my hands.

  “Not so fast.” A woman thrust her bejeweled hand between the doors, which slammed onto her wrist. “Ow! Holy freak! God bless Fredonia!” she said.

  The doors rebounded open and I peered at a twenty-something, pretty, blonde woman who winced as she held her wrist with her other hand.

  “Oh, crap!” I said. “I’m sorry. If you had hollered for me to hold the elevator, I would have done that. You okay?” I asked as the doors started to slide shut again. I stuck my foot between them and they bounced off my Keds.

  “I believe so.”

  Mr. Philips and a coiffed, twenty-something brunette chick stood close to the suite’s doorway in the hall behind her and watched us.

  I felt a new batch of tears welling and I didn’t want to lose it in front of complete strangers. “I’m sorry, miss. I need to make tracks. Are you coming—”

  She latched onto my arm and yanked me out of the elevator. I spun around and landed on my ass on the hallway�
�s lush, tapestry carpeted floor.

  What kind of girl would rip me out of an elevator at the Drake Hotel?

  “Who are you?” I gazed up at her. “And what do you want from me?”

  “I’m Lady Elizabeth Theresa Billingsley of Fredonia. I want to hire you to be my Personal Assistant for a part-time job. I’ll pay you a king’s ransom, I’ll give you a signing bonus and I’ll throw in a makeover and wardrobe expenses. Say yes. I insist.”

  Oh my God!

  “Yes!”

  She smiled and clapped her hands excitedly. “Swell-zies!”

  The elevator made a low whooshing sound behind me as it departed and I wondered:

  What the heck was Fredonia? And what kind of part-time job had I just signed up for?

  Elizabeth leaned over and peered at me like I was a delectable but doomed mouse that a cat had cornered in the kitchen. “I’ve been looking for you for almost a month now.” She held out one perfectly manicured hand. “Close your mouth. Stop gaping like a fish out of water and get up.”

  “All-righty.” I took her hand and she hauled me to standing.

  “Mr. Philips is my employee. I’m the one hiring you. You—whatever your name is—have captured my interest. I am incredibly sorry. I never forget a face, but I am terrible with names. What is your name again?”

  “Lucille Marie Trabbicio.”

  “Right. I read your job application and I instructed Mr. Philips to invite you to interview,” she said.

  Elizabeth had glossy, styled blonde-highlighted hair, shiny white teeth, impossibly long eyelashes and immaculately groomed eyebrows. She looked like she could grace the screen in an animated Disney Movie. I squinted because her perfection blinded me or perhaps I’d poked an eye out during my fall.