“I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“Which feels like a minute,” I said. “My boyfriend’s on his way over and I don’t want your half naked ass anywhere near me, or him.”
“I noticed a diary resting on your hovel’s kitchen counter. I, too, have recently taken up journaling,” he said.
I swiveled and shoved my index finger at his dead, albeit still overly Botoxed face. “You. Are not allowed. To read my Diary! Somewhere in the cosmic rulebook of life, there is a statute that states dead people who ruined another person’s life, are not allowed to read journals that contain their victim’s private thoughts and feelings. So cut it out, and take a hike until my date is over. Or better yet, leave—forever!”
“I would love to leave forever. I am dying to go to the Afterlife. Unfortunately, I am still trapped here on this insipid mortal plane. I have the utmost respect for you, Annie. I would never do anything to compromise our relationship,” Derrick said.
“You slept with my soon to be ex-husband, ruined my marriage, killed my business, blackmailed me into solving your murder, and you’ve been haunting me for months.”
“Except for the ‘haunting’ comment, which I prefer to call ‘nurturing’, that’s all in the past, Cupcake. Holding onto old grudges makes one bitter and is a surefire way to age more quickly. Is that a new wrinkle I see on your forehead?” He squinted at me. “Besides, I would never dream of violating the sacred Diary boundary. Journaling is a wonderful confessional outlet for saints and sinners, alike. Aren’t you the least bit curious to know what I’m writing about in mine?” He waggled his eyebrows.
“No. I don’t care if you’re journaling about world peace, Amway products, or sensitive men thinking overly-sensitive thoughts.” There was a curt knock on my front door. “Raphael’s here.” I walked through my living room. “Amscray.” I unbolted, then pulled open the door expecting to see one gorgeous man: six foot two inches tall, jet-black hair, and shoulders with muscles so ripped you could trace them with your fingertips for hours. But Raphael Campillio was not there.
Instead, a scrawny, short deliveryman held a vase filled with flowers in one hand and picked his nose with his other. “Ms. Annie Rose Graceland Piccolino?”
“Piccolino’s my married name. As soon as I’m divorced from Satan, I’m happily dropping that last name like a lonely, albeit hopeful, inmate drops a bar of soap in a prison shower.”
“I have flowers for Ms. Annie Rose Graceland Piccolino,” the deliveryman said. “I don’t care if you’re married, or what your last name is. I’m just here to deliver some flowers. Do you want the bouquet, lady?”
Why would Raphael send me flowers? He was on his way over to my place. Unless something had come up at work, and he’d been detained. But wouldn’t he have just called? We’d been dating for six months now. It’s not like we were super formal with each other. Neither of us had even uttered the L word that rhymes with dove. (I’m not saying it out loud, or even writing it down as the guy needs to say it first, or there can be disastrous consequences.) Unless, unless…
We’d Been Dating For Six Months Now! Perhaps these were anniversary flowers, or maybe a declaration of love flowers, or maybe even—oh my God, Diary—holy smokes, hold the door, keep your skirt on. What if these were ‘Raphael wanted to ask me to marry him’ flowers!
“Eek!” I screamed, jumped up and down, and fluttered my hands excitedly.
“Ack!” the deliveryman stumbled a few steps back and bobbled the vase.
“Meow!” Theodore squeaked, raced through the living room, flattened himself like an animated rug on the floor and wriggled under the couch.
“Contain yourself!” Derrick said. “Might I remind you that you don’t seem to have good karma in the delivery department.”
“Hand them to me!” I shouted at the deliveryman. “Hand them to me!” I grabbed the vase from him, strode a few feet and placed it carefully on my coffee table. I swiped my purse from the couch, fumbled for my wallet, pulled out a few bills, turned back and tipped him. “Thank you! Thank you so very much!”
“Any time.” He grabbed the cash and bolted, as I slammed the door so Teddy couldn’t sneak outside and get lost.
Flowers, Dear Diary! Flowers from my beloved, my true love, possibly my soon-to-be fiancé—Raphael Campillio. My hands shook as I unwrapped the card from the envelope, held it in front of me, and read:
“My sweet Annie,
I hope you don’t mind an affectionate gesture from someone who has thought of you not only fondly, but also frequently over the years. It’s been a long time since we’ve talked, but I surmised from your posts on your FB page, that you, too, were extricating yourself from a painful marriage. I want to be there for you during a difficult time. Feel free to call me at 702/555-1212, or e-mail me at [email protected]. I asked Julia to forward your address to the florist, as I did not want to intrude on your privacy.
Looking forward to calling you ‘friend’ once again.
Fondly,
Mack McManus”
“Crap!” I said. “They’re not from Raphael.”
“I know,” Derrick said.
I swiveled and felt a little nauseous as my head passed through his ghostly, naked, dead chest. Per usual, he was smack-dab behind me, reading the note over my shoulder. “Blech! How many times have I told you to stand at least a foot away from me?”
“Have you told me about Mack?” Derrick asked. “Do you have any pictures of him?”
I flipped my laptop open to Mack’s Facebook page. “See for yourself.”
“You need to fill the vase with water before these flowers wilt.”
I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a skinny, plastic cup from my cupboard.
“He’s cute,” Derrick said. “An old beau, I assume.”
“Former college boyfriend. Jeez, I wish these had been from Rafe. You don’t think he’ll get jealous, do you? Like—should I toss them before he gets here?” I filled the cup with tap water.
“Definitely not. Alpha men need competition. I wrote about that in my best selling book: I Promise—You Can Win the Alpha Man’s Heart. Hey, your giant feline’s eating your flowers. I don’t know if you want the bouquet to be nibbled on…”
“Who cares,” I said. “It’s not like they’re engagement flowers.”
“What are ‘engagement flowers?’” Derrick asked.
“Engagement flowers are special flowers. These are nice—but nothing-special flowers.” I glanced at the bouquet resting on the coffee table as sprigs of baby’s breath camouflaged Theodore’s head but could not hide his massive body. “The gesture was sweet, but this looks like an average bouquet to me. Some carnations, baby’s breath, filler greenery, a couple of roses, and—”
“Lots of lilies,” Derrick said. “I do believe that’s what your monster cat is noshing on.”
I swiveled so fast, the cup flew out of my hand, and the water sprayed onto what should have been Derrick’s head—but instead sailed through it.
Theodore was munching on the lily stems. Do you know how POISONOUS lilies are to cats, Diary? Like, a few nibbles and their kidneys shut down and your cat is DEAD. Yes, it can happen that fast, and yes, I know this because we almost lost my first cat, Fluffy, to Easter Lily poisoning when I was twelve-years-old.
I leapt across the room, grabbed my cat, pried his jaws open, and stuck my finger down his throat as he wriggled wildly. But unfortunately, that maneuver didn’t have the same effect on cats that it had on humans.
“What in God’s creation, are you doing?” Derrick said.
There was a knock on the door. “Come in!” I hollered.
Raphael paced into the room. “What the hell?”
“He just ate lilies!” I burst into tears but would not release my stranglehold on Theodore.
“Where’s your cat carrier?” Raphael asked, his eyes sweeping my tiny apartment.
“In the hall closet, on the floor, on the right hand side.”
&
nbsp; Rafe strode out of the living room and was back within a few seconds, holding the cat carrier. “Put him inside.”
I attempted to shove Theodore head first into the carrier, but he planted his two front paws firmly on either side of the opening and squirmed. “He drives me crazy!”
“Switch off,” Raphael said. “You hold the carrier and I’ll wrangle the cat.” So we did. He scuffed the nape of Theodore’s neck that made him go limp for just enough time to propel his twenty-pound hairy behind into the carrier, and I latched the gate. He held the cage as we raced out of my apartment.
“I’ll kill myself if he doesn’t make it,” I said as we raced toward the curb. “I’ll drive.”
“Hell, no. Your car’s been breaking down all over the place. You caught your cat in the act. We’re taking him to the emergency vet and we’ll get there in record time if I drive. I’m sure he’ll be just fine,” Rafe said. “By the way—who sent you flowers?”
Pray for us, Diary.
Thank you,
Annie
ASPCA List of Poisonous Plants for Animals
Chapter 8
Ordering for One
GRADY
Dear Finley,
So far, National Novel Writing Month has been not only productive, but a blast! I’ve met some nice new friends online by using the hashtag #NaNoWriMo. I’m comparing notes with writers from diverse backgrounds, ages, countries of origin, and writing genres.
Yessenia from Romania is writing a dystopian zombie romance set at sea—kind of like Titanic the movie, but without a ship. Raul from Brazil is writing a thriller about Neo-Nazis posing as an inspirational religious organization. Edna from Missouri pens Forty Shades of White Hair—a slap and tickle romance for seniors. The NaNoWriMo camaraderie is phenomenal and so inspiring!
Both Annie and Julia assured me they are journaling to support my effort. I believe Annie. I’m not so sure about Julia, but for now, I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt.
I sensed a bit of frostiness between the two of them recently, and while neither of them has approached me to intervene, I think they had some kind of girl fight. The last time we hit In & Out Burger in the Marina, I heard a few ‘unpleasant’ comments as we placed our orders at the counter.
“I’d like a Double Double with the special sauce on the side and a small order of fries, please,” Annie said.
“Will that be all, Miss?” The counter boy asked.
“No,” Julia said. “I’d like two Double Doubles with the special sauce—”
“Yes, that’s all. That’s my order. I’m ordering for one, thank you very much.” Annie handed the clerk a five-dollar bill.
“Since when do we order separately?” Julia asked.
“Since you were instrumental in almost killing my cat,” Annie said.
“Grady, you know what I always get. Order for me, se il vous plaît,” Julia instructed. “Your cat—Fat-adore von Fatter-nickel’s fine.”
“I’d like three Double Doubles, three orders of fries, and two milkshakes: one vanilla and one chocolate.” My manly, but manicured hands trembled ever so slightly as I handed the counter boy my debit card. “Yes sir, that order will be on one tab.”
“Perhaps, Annie,” Julia said, “you should thank me for the fact that Mack sent you flowers, which got your boyfriend a little jealous, and prompted him to up his game.”
“Do not call my cat, Fat-adore. And FYI, I’m busy this upcoming Sunday, and can’t be your designated driver at the Martinis and G-strings trunk show at the new Slutty Undies Boutique.”
“Ooh. Too busy chatting with you former flame, Mack, on Facebook? He likes all of your posts—except for the ones about Raphael.”
“Cyber stalking me much?” Annie asked. “I’m busy with—well—very important, last minute, baking business.”
“It’s so ‘last minute’ that you’ve planned it three days in advance,” Julia said.
“I meant—urgent,” Annie hissed.
“Hey,” I said. “How’s the diary writing coming along?”
“Great!” Annie said.
“Peachy!” Julia huffed.
Oh, Finley. Sometimes I wonder why am I friends with these girls? Yes, I’ve known them for years—but really—what do we have in common?
But then I remembered when my first script semi-finaled in a small screenwriting contest. Annie sat on the phone with me every night, until the list of the writers that made the finals was released—and I wasn’t on it. I bit my lip and tried to hold back the waves of sadness. I felt so incredibly defeated.
Annie burst out crying and then railed at the judges’ overwhelming stupidity and lack of vision. Three days later—she and Julia held a surprise Margaritas and Cupcakes party for me and secretively invited all my friends to cheer me on for my accomplishments.
We are friends and we have history, Finley. We might not be on the same path, but I think our hearts will always be aligned. And that’s a good thing. Because good friends who love you, no matter what, no matter when, and in spite of whatever your recent screw-up is—well, Finley, those friends are hard to find. They are keepers.
Did I tell you about my new novel that I’m working on for NaNoWriMo?
It’s a murder mystery. I think it’s good. I’ll save that for our next conversation.
Yours truly,
Grady Swenson
Chapter 9
Mishigas
ANNIE
Dear Diary,
He’s freaking killing me. Mack likes every single one of my posts. He sends me private messages and emojis constantly. I’m tempted to frown, point my index finger at my head like a gun, take a selfie, and post that as my profile picture.
But Mack would probably ‘like’ that and send me stickers. Then I’d be tempted to stop my misery, buy a real gun, and shoot myself, even though I’ve never owned a gun, I’m totally for gun control, and I believe in peaceful solutions over violence every day.
And the photos—can we talk about the hundreds of pictures he’s sent me in less than a week since he friended me? There are Instagrams of cute cats, photos of him and me as a couple when we were in college, one of him tickling me—I hated when he tickled me—as well as dozens of snapshots of him posed next to every Cadillac known to mankind as well as hundreds of used cars.
He’s driving me insane!
I told Rafe about it. He told me to unfriend Mack and block him on Facebook.
But that felt a little harsh. “Why?” I asked. “He hasn’t threatened to hurt me or violate me. He’s just this old, lonely, boyfriend from so many years ago, who I have zero interest in dating. There’s no point.”
“What about your sanity? That’s a valid point,” he said after I pitched a perfectly good cupcake across the room where it splattered on the wall, slid down to the floor, and collapsed in a broken heap. Strangely enough, on our next date, Rafe showed up with a bouquet of a dozen red roses. (Score!)
I broke down and told Mack that the flowers he sent poisoned Theodore. He felt awful, went on a bit of a rant about the poaching of wild animals in Africa, that it was wrong, and that we must save the animals. I have no idea how these two subjects came together in his brain. He offered to send me some money through Paypal to cover the vet bill—which ran around five hundred dollars. I wasn’t sure whether to deposit it, but I was late on my phone bill, gas bill, and my credit card was maxed out. I reluctantly accepted the money and thanked him profusely.
He messaged me, said “Mack was happy to help,” and asked for a photo of Theodore; so he could see the cat he inadvertently poisoned, and then helped save.
Well, Diary, despite the fact that he was referring to himself in the third person, he was being so sweet and I couldn’t say no. What was the harm in sending him a picture of Teddy? I privately forwarded him a few of my favorite shots of Theodore (I was NOT in any of those photos.)
When I checked Facebook the next morning, Mack had uploaded them to his regular page, his business page, and tagg
ed me on both. And he’d titled his post: “Mack ‘The Man’ McManus Saves the Animals!”
A creepy-crawly sensation made its way up my spine and poked its tentacles into my brain. Frankly, this felt a little weird; like boundaries were crossed, like I’d been violated in some kind of way. I gave my head a shake, and reminded myself that Mack was probably just lonely, and liked to perform good deeds to make himself feel better about life. I mean—we all do that, right?
After a few days passed, I relented on Julia, and forgave her for the cat-poisoning debacle, that technically wasn’t her fault.
And life went on.
Grady was being secretive about the novel he was writing. Said it was a murder mystery. (Shocker.)
In a strange twist of events, my boss, Mort Feinberg, gave me a tiny raise and promoted me to the front kitchen of his deli. Even though Mr. Feinberg had been around forever, and fed every celebrity known to mankind, he still treated everyone that worked for him like a human being—not simply slave labor.
Eighty-five-year-old Mort Feinberg toddled into the back back kitchen last Thursday afternoon just like he was seventy-five, and watched as I punched out a thousand cookies with a cutter shaped like a fat Thanksgiving turkey. “You’re a good kid, Annie Graceland. Not a day goes by that I regret hiring you.”
“Thanks, Mr. Feinberg. You are a gentleman and quite the munch.”
“You mean, mensch, or my wife will have my head,” he said.
“Right,” I said. “I’m still learning Yiddish. Sorry, sir.”
He waved one hand at me. “Don’t worry about it. We’re square. I realize you want your own bakery business again, someday. In the meantime, you need to build some good will with the public. Let this whole mishigas with the dead self-help author pass, like bad wind after a meal prepared with too much corn syrup.”
The Annie Graceland Cupcakes Cozy Mystery Box Set #2: Books 5 - 7 Page 3
