Pamela DuMond - Annie Graceland 04 - Cupcakes, Paws, and Bad Santa Claus

by Pamela DuMond

  Contents

  Dedication

  Copyright

  Also by the Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bad Santa Recipes

  Acknowledgments

  In Loving Memory

  Links

  Dedication

  The Sassy Girls’ Book Club

  You rock!

  Special thanks to:

  Allie Sinclair

  Alta Kirkland

  Amy Moore

  An’gel Ducote Molpus

  Betty Milton

  Carole M. Sauer

  Cheryl Cavitt Carlson

  Cheryl Moore

  Dave Thome

  Deborah Riley-Magnus

  Deborah Daly Roelandts

  Grant Jerkins

  Jeanie Whitmore Jackson

  Joan Brady

  Joanne Kelly

  Kristin Warren

  Laura DeVries

  Lorrie Callison Watson

  Marcie Haack

  Megan E. Tinker

  Rachel Kramer Bussell

  Rosemary Boncella

  Shelly Fredman

  Terri Billingsley Dunn

  Tonya Wrobleski

  Cupcakes, Paws, and Bad Santa Claus

  A Novella

  A Romantic, Comedic Annie Graceland Mystery

  Copyright © 2013 Pamela DuMond

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Art Design: Michael James Canales http://www.mjcimageworks.com

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any other means, without written permission of the author, except in the use of brief quotations used in articles or reviews. You can contact the author at Pamela.DuMond@gmail.com

  Also by the Author

  Cupcakes, Lies, and Dead Guys (A Romantic, Comedic Annie Graceland Mystery #1)

  Cupcakes, Sales, and Cocktails – A Novella (A Romantic, Comedic Annie Graceland Mystery #2)

  Cupcakes, Pies, and Hot Guys (A Romantic, Comedic Annie Graceland Mystery #3)

  The Messenger (Mortal Beloved, Book One)

  The Story of You and Me: a love story

  The Girlfriend’s Guidebook to Staying Young: Simple Techniques to Look and Feel Young

  1

  Holiday Ho-Hums

  “I’d rather sit through back-to-back screenings of the Carrie Underwood and Bill the Vampire version of The Sound of Music than go Christmas shopping,” Annie Graceland said. Her best friend, Julia, dragged her through the hordes of holiday shoppers at the trendy, bright, cacophonous outdoor Westside Mall in foggy Los Angeles, California.

  “I adore Christmas shopping!” Julia said. “You need to get with the holiday spirit, Annie. We’re in Fa-la La-Land after all.” Brightly lit Christmas trees and menorahs were located next to each bank of escalators. Shiny, jewel-toned ornaments hung from fake pine boughs draped over the top of every storefront. An assortment of piped in holiday music hummed from invisible speakers hidden near them.

  Annie tossed her long auburn hair back, tilted her face upward and sniffed the air. “I detect the scent of pine mixed with vanilla and cinnamon,” she said. “I fear we’re being hit with poisonous gas. They did that in World War I, you know, and thousands of people died. We should make a run for it. Before it’s too late.” She pinched her nostrils shut with one hand and yanked Julia in the opposite direction toward an escalator.

  “No-no!” Julia ground her high-heeled boots into the terra-cotta tinted concrete. “It’s not poisonous. California Thrills theme park does the same thing during their virtual hang-gliding ride. They squirt a concoction that smells like oranges the moment you think you’re flying over orange groves. When you’re heading out over the Pacific Ocean they release an aroma that’s reminiscent of salty sea air with a hint of low tide. Besides, I’m feeling the Christmas spirit and I have imperative holiday shopping that needs to get done.”

  “You say that about all holiday shopping,” Annie said. “Pre-Valentines Day you’re scouring Victoria’s Secret like a heroin addict looking for his spoon and a lighter. St. Patrick’s Day you down a couple of green beers at O’Malley’s and head back for more lingerie.”

  “You’re mistaken,” Julia huffed. “I don’t drink and drive.”

  “I know—you called me to be your designated driver because I don’t have a life.”

  “You’ll have a life once your divorce is finalized.”

  Annie frowned.

  “Besides,” Julia said, “a girl’s got to wear a little green for St. Paddy’s Day. My erin go bra and panty set are incredibly festive and I wear it on other holidays.”

  “Like Veteran’s Day?”

  “I support our troops,” Julia said.

  “You troll the VFW,” Annie said.

  “At least I’m patriotic.” Julia sniffed. “Why so crabby? That time of the month?”

  “More like that time of the year. Look around us,” Annie said. “Everything is bright and fake, plastic and shiny. It’s all about want-want-want, gluttony and crass commercialism.”

  “It’s Christmas. That’s normal for Christmas,” Julia said. “You need to have a cocktail or a cupcake and lighten up.”

  “When I was little, Christmas was about hope and anticipation. We believed in magic and love and the kindness of strangers. There is nothing in this mall that is genuine.” Annie turned and pointed. “Not that pine tree. Not that woman’s boobs, nose, nails, tightly-pulled face or conspicuous lack of a muffin-top. And especially not that guy. I mean—look at him. His fake smile. His overly-friendly hand gestures and the phony way he says, ‘Thank you and have a joyous holiday.’ He’s up to no good.”

  “You mean the Salvation Army volunteer who’s ringing his little bell?”

  “Poser. Probably another out-of-work actor.” Annie said. “It is L.A., after all. I’m good at reading people. I bet he skims off the top.”

  “I think you’re suffering from holiday depression. It’s quite common—”

  “I am not depressed!” Annie plunked down on a mall bench, dropped her head into her hands and discretely wiped away a few tears from her eyes. “I was supposed to be divorced by now, but that’s been delayed because my soon-to-be ex-husband’s divorce lawyer is arguing for joint custody and Mike’s visitation rights for my cat, Theodore von Pumpernickel.”

  “Oh, Annie,” Julia said. “I’m sorry. I thought your divorce was a done deal?”

  “Me too! I can’t believe Mike would try and steal my best furry friend. I adopted Theodore the same week I moved from Wisconsin to L.A. so Mike could pursue his acting career. I begged him to accept Theodore into our home. I think he scratched that adorable cat’s fuzzy chin twice during our entire four-year marriage. And now he has the nerve to fight for visitation?”

  A gang of seven-year-olds girls dressed as Christmas angels, wearing golden halos sticking up from the back of their shirts, scampered next to them and giggled. A harried-looking woman trudged behind them, her cell phone practically glued to her ear.

  “Mike’s such an ass—”

  Julia clamped her hand over Annie’s mouth.

  “I call dibs on the Christmas co
okies with the sparkles,” one little girl said.

  “Not if I get there first!” Another girl bumped against Annie and skipped past her. “I’m an angel and angels can fly, you know.”

  Annie pinched Julia’s arm. “Leth go of meeth.”

  Julia dropped her hand and shook her finger. “Do not swear in front of innocent children.”

  And that’s when Annie felt it. Her heart fluttered and she craved sugar cookies with frosting on top. Her adrenaline soared and she thought about hearts and butterflies and how exciting it would be if she’d wake up on Christmas morning, race down to the tree, unwrap her big present and discover that Santa gave her the new Barbie who had her own cupcake shop. All the other girls would want to be her friend and probably invite her to birthday parties and sleepovers—squee!

  Wait a minute. Annie shook her head and squinted at the young girl who had jostled her. The munchkin jumped into the air as if she had springs on her feet. And this is where it always got a little tricky for Annie—because she didn’t crave sugar cookies and Barbies—okay, maybe sugar cookies.

  Thirty-eight-year-old Annie didn’t want a sleepover unless it was with her new-ish, hot boyfriend, Detective Raphael Campillio. But the young girl did dream about cookies and friends and sleepovers and Barbies. Annie was feeling another person’s sensations inside her own body because—Annie was kind of psychic.

  Technically she was empathic—she could feel emotions and sensations that weren’t her own—they belonged to other people. But why, now, was she consumed by a seven-year-old girl’s holiday hopes? Annie’s weirdo, psychic ability usually only happened when she was stressed out. It was Christmas season—why would she be stressing out?

  A second girl caught up with the first one and punched her hard on her arm.

  “Ow!” the first girl said.

  “You’re an angel my poopy butt. My mommy said your mommy eats too many cookies and that you’re both fat,” the second girl said. “You’re too fat to fly. Hah!” She raced past her.

  “Wah!” The first girl plunked down on the floor and broke into tears.

  Annie’s heart dropped. “Case in point regarding the problem with Christmas,” she said. “Even the kiddos are corrupted. Not one single thing or person in this entire mall is heartfelt. Show me an example of the heart of Christmas, or I’m out of here.”

  “I found it! Look!” Julia pointed to a large ‘Get your Picture taken with Santa Claus’ sign next to a booth that resembled a mini-North Pole. “What could be more wholesome and Christmasy than Santa? Let’s do it! Let’s sit on Santa’s lap and get our picture taken. We can use the photo for our holiday card.”

  Annie craned her head and peered at the booth. A long line of kids and moms waited as little ones hopped on and off of St. Nick’s lap. Someone shouted “Reindeer!” and flashbulbs popped. A short person dressed as an elf promptly herded the blinking children away from the guy in the Santa outfit.

  An older woman wearing a white, curly wig and a calf-length red dress dragged the next group of kids and positioned them on Santa’s lap. She clapped her hands. “Children! I’ll give each of you a candy cane. But only if you smile at me. Big smiles! On the count of one, two, three—reindeer!” She whipped her arms up in the air and waved at the kids. They smiled and giggled, screamed and squirmed. Flash Flash, Pop Pop the cameras whirred and lights glinted.

  Annie couldn’t catch a glimpse of the guy playing Santa, but imagined he had to be a good-hearted soul who not only tolerated sugar-jacked, screaming children, but also their overly-nervous mothers who were paying a pretty penny for their darlings to be photographed with him. “Okay, Julia.” Annie surprised even herself. “I’ll do it. Let’s sit on Santa’s lap and get our pics taken. Forty bucks is a little pricey, but we’ll split it.”

  “Goody!” Julia said and they took their place in the back of the line that snaked toward good ole St. Nick’s throne.

  2

  Bad Santa

  Annie pinched her nose shut and Julia adjusted her boob back into her bra as they stumbled away from Santa and his ornate chair.

  “Thanks for making Santa’s day!” The older dude in the Santa suit waved at them. “That was a better pick-me-up than a double latte grandé. Almost as exciting as a lap-dance.”

  “Creep! You pervert!” Annie glowered at him and shook her fist.

  “What?” Mrs. Claus swiveled and frowned.

  “Jeeps! Stay alert!’” Julia said. “You don’t want those precious, squirmy youngsters falling off Santa’s knees, Mrs. Claus. I’m a lawyer and I know a potential lawsuit when I see it.”

  “You girlies want to hook up with me for a more private lap-sitting gig?” Santa spread his legs for a few moments and gave them a two-thumbs up. “Feel free to contact me on my Claus@Kmail.com account.”

  “Gee thanks,” Julia said. “You might want to take that roll of breath mints out of your pocket before the next group of kids sit on your lap.”

  “Those weren’t breath mints,” Annie whispered.

  “Mrs. Claus has the skinny on how you two lovelies can reach me. Right, two-chins?”

  “Oh, sod off Kenny.” Mrs. Claus frowned and clapped her hands. “Come children! Tell Santa what you want for Christmas. We have treats for you if you smile. We have more yummies if you have sharp objects—like knives—in your pockets that dig into Kenny-I-mean-Santa’s lap.”

  Julia clutched her stomach as they made their way toward the cashier. “I think I’m going to puke,” she said. “He squashed his arm against my left boob. I tried to lean away. But no—he just squeezed me tighter, forcing his flabby man moob against me. Then he breathed. Heavy. Blech.”

  “He was probably over-exerting himself—he was trying to goose me at the same time.” Annie reached behind her and discretely attempted to pull her pants out of her butt crack. “Ick. I need a shower.”

  Annie and Julia stood in another long line in front of the check out counter waiting for their photos. A twenty-something, female, blonde cashier wearing too much makeup and too little clothes pointed her checkout scanner at the white envelopes printed with names. Moms and dads ran their plastic cards through the credit card machine and scrawled their signatures.

  “Maybe we should just skip this and blow out of here,” Julia said.

  “No,” Annie said. “We signed up for this stupidity. We’re not asshats who renege on promises or obligations. We’ll pay and then leave.”

  Minutes later the perky blonde scanned the code on their envelope and glanced at her checkout screen. “That’ll be one hundred and eight dollars and twenty three cents.”

  “What?” Annie and Julia asked.

  “That will be one hun—”

  Annie pointed at the board next to the booth’s entrance. “The sign states, ‘Only $40 for priceless, holiday memories.’”

  “That’s for one person,” Blondie said.

  “You don’t offer a group discount?”

  “Only for children.”

  “Okay.” Annie frowned. “That would make it eighty dollars. Which is a fortune for six photos. Is this detail mentioned somewhere on the official sign?”

  “Lower right hand corner of the poster under the smiling elf’s foot.” Blondie said.

  “All the elves are smiling,” Julia said.

  “Not all of them,” Blondie sniffed. “The smiling elf on the far, far right hand side.”

  Julia and Annie leaned down and squinted at the tiny inscription under the elf’s fancy, black shoe.

  Julia sighed. “Always check the fine print. I’m a lawyer. I should know this.”

  Annie straightened back up and squared off against Blondie. “It’s still not one hundred and nine dollars.”

  Blondie rolled her eyes. “It’s an extra ten dollars if you’re over the weight limit. The airlines do it all the time with luggage. The PSA allows us to eyeball it, I mean you. We can use the scale if that makes you more comfortable.”

  Annie’s irritation gurgled in h
er stomach, curled up through her chest and into her mouth where words were forming so quickly they practically tripped over each other to exit her lips. “I’m sorry? PSA? Weight limit? The scale?”

  “Annie, it’s okay,” Julia’s eyes widened and she patted her arm briskly. A little too briskly. “I’ll just put this on my credit card and you can pay me back whenever you have the money. Let’s not create a scene, right?” She sang, a little off tune,“It’s the most wonderful time… Right? Like the hap, happiest time…”

  Annie glared at Blondie. “I am not hap-happy. You seriously think I believe that Mr. Creepy,” she jerked her thumb at Kenny, “is with the TSA?”

  “Ah,” Blondie said. “You’re older. Perhaps you need to have your hearing checked. I’ll ta-lk slow ly for youuuu.”

  Annie clenched her hands into fists. “I’m thirty-eight—not one hundred and eight.”

  Julia’s face blanched. “No, no, Annie. Breathe. Joy to the World. Peace on Earth.”

  “PSA stands for the Professional Santa Association,” Blondie said. “They have rules and regulations for pro Santa impersonators. Rule number twenty-two is that any overweight persons can be charged additional fees to sit on Santa’s lap. A percentage of these monies go to an orthopedic health fund for re-habbing groin pulls, hip replacements—”

  “I’m sorry?” Annie said. “‘Overweight persons?’ Are you saying that we are being charged more to sit on that pervert’s lap because you, Ms. Twizzle Stick I ate one low-fat pretzel for lunch today, have eyeballed us and judged that we are overweight?”

  Blondie pursed her lips and rolled her eyes. She leaned down, pulled out a square metal scale from behind the checkout stand and placed it on the floor in front of Annie and Julia. “I’ve got the height and weight chart in front of me. Go ahead. Step on the scale, ladies, one at a time of course. Prove me wrong. Especially you—the extra curvy one.”