The Annie Graceland Cupcakes Cozy Mystery Box Set #2: Books 5 - 7

by Pamela DuMond

  Dear Finley,

  I found Annie crouched behind a wax display of the “007 James Bond” actors at the famous Starlight Wax Museum. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes wild, and she hissed, “Thank God you’re here! He’s freaking me out! Who the hell tickles someone they haven’t seen in eighteen years? What’s next, pantsing? And he wants me to go with him to the WEPOC awards banquet, and you’re not even going to believe what his cologne smells like.”

  I sniffed the air. “His cologne smells like the inside of a new car. What’s a WEPOC?” I asked. “Is it contagious?”

  Mack paced past the wax displays searching for Annie as he alternated between calling her name and telling everyone who was brave enough to meet his crazy gaze that, “Mack “The Man” McManus is in the House of Wax!”

  “Western States Previously Owned Car’s convention,” Annie whispered. “He has my phone! I need my phone back!”

  We ducked and dodged around wax celebrities until I stuffed her behind wax Samuel Jackson from Pulp Fiction.

  I told her to stay hidden. I snuck around the museum to the opposite side, and approached Mack from the wax Angelina Jolie direction. I smiled, introduced myself, and told him Annie had to leave his company for a baking emergency. Regrettably, she wouldn’t be able to make his WEPOC banquet. She’d dropped her phone and believed that Mack, her handsome, gentleman friend, had picked it up and was keeping it safe for her.

  He peered at me and then stuck out his arm, gripped my hand, and shook it for the longest twenty seconds of my life.

  “Ah!” I said, cringed, and wondered if he dislocated my elbow.

  “You’re the screenwriter,” he said. “I saw your photo and profile on Annie’s Facebook page. Mack has a story for you that would make a great movie. You could write it and we could share the profits.”

  Unfortunately, Finley, this is one of the downfalls of being a writer. Everyone thinks they have the next best-selling story—and perhaps they do—but they expect you to clap your hands, get on board and write their idea for free, when you already have a hundred ideas swimming around in your overly fertile writer brain.

  “That’s super, Mack,” I said. “Why don’t you give me Annie’s phone and we’ll set up a time to talk about your idea.” Like never.

  He pulled her phone from his pants pocket, but hesitated and clutched it in his sweaty palm. “Even better, let Mack tell you about it—now.” He rested his hand on the arm of wax Arnold Schwarzenegger from The Terminator movie. “It’s about a young used car salesman who endured tragedy and heartache for twenty years only to survive, flourish, sell more cars, and eventually win the #2 WEPOC Salesman of the year award. It’s just like Rocky.”

  An ancient, tiny female docent with white hair and a hunched spine approached us at an alarming rate, a big fat frown on her crinkled face. “Gentlemen! Do not touch the wax celebrities!”

  Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Annie crouched over and tiptoeing toward the door. “Dude,” I said. “Give me Annie’s phone. Facebook me, and we’ll set up a time to chat.”

  “It’s about corporate injustice and uncovering pricing scandals and rescuing the little people; like a male version of Erin Brockovich. I even thought of the movie’s theme song. It should be “Cars” by Gary Neuman. Perfect, yes?”

  “Take your hand off Mr. Schwarzenegger, immediately!” the docent screeched.

  “Mack!” I said. “Give it to me before the Wicked Warden calls the cops and throws us in wax prison.”

  “Ooh, you’re right!” He handed off Annie’s phone, which I snagged.

  “Thanks! Great to meet you. I’ve gotta run to a… screening. Catch up later?” I turned and strode toward the door.

  “Tonight, dude. I’m totally Facebooking you after Mack collects his trophy at the banquet. Numero Dos, little buddy!” he said. “I can practically see the Academy Award noms plastered all over this story.”

  I gave him a thumbs up. “You’re ‘The Man’.”

  I slipped out the entrance onto the dusky streets of Hollywood and peered around until I spotted the only chick that didn’t resemble a hooker or a tourist.

  Annie hunched over in the doorway of a souvenir shop across this very wide boulevard, pretending to check out Star Maps and other tourist trap paraphernalia.

  I threw myself into traffic, jogged around swerving cars, taxis, and confused tourists, and made it in one piece to the other side of the street where I approached her cautiously, like she was a wounded animal. “I saved the day, Annie.” I held out her phone, and she snatched it from my hand.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You went above and beyond. Where’s Julia?”

  “On her way here.”

  “Which translates to—stuck in crappy traffic. Text her and tell her to turn around. Tell her I love her, and I’m sorry I can’t hang tonight as I’m somewhat traumatized.”

  “Got it.” I pulled out my phone and keyed in her message.

  “Oh, God,” Annie said. “What if Mack still hounds me into going to that awards dinner with him? He’d have to handcuff me.”

  “Handled it,” I said. “Stop worrying.”

  “I need to order a Johnnie’s pizza and hug my cat. Can we meet up tomorrow?”

  “I’ve got time later in the afternoon.”

  “Who knew accepting an old boyfriend’s request on Facebook could turn into such a nightmare? Get me the hell out of here, before Mr. No Boundaries careens out that door and glombs back onto us.”

  God, Finley, I hate the drama, but it’s all such amazing material for my murder mystery.

  Your friend,

  Grady Swenson

  Sweet Potato Casserole

  by Terri Billingsley Dunn

  Ingredients and Directions:

  1 lb. cooked sweet potatoes, drained and mashed.

  1/4 cup melted margarine.

  1 cup sugar.

  1/2 tsp. salt.

  2-eggs.

  1/2 cup milk.

  1/2 tsp vanilla.

  Whisk together and spread in 9 x 13 casserole dish.

  Mix together the following and sprinkle on top of sweet potato mixture: 1 cup brown sugar. 1/3 cup self-rising flour. 1 cup pecan chips. 1/4 cup melted margarine. (Mix first three ingredients together before adding margarine.)

  Bake at 350 degrees for 40 minutes.

  Chapter 14

  Lucky Buddha

  DR. DERRICK

  Dearest Diary,

  The day after Annie’s tickling debacle, her loser friends and I convened at Star Hair and Nail Salon in Mar Vista. Formerly a working class Westside L.A. neighborhood, it is now filled with sixty-year-old bungalows that were being razed and replaced with million dollar modernist cube homes.

  We’d gathered at this hole-in-the wall salon for mani-pedis. Julia wanted to go to a more upscale nail spa with the cushier chairs on Main Street. Grady preferred Groom, a trendy barbershop in We-Ho for his man-scaping needs. Personally, I frequented Stefan: The Salon in Beverly Hills. But Stefan would no longer attend to my cosmetic upkeep needs as I was dead, and he wasn’t. Some day he, too, would pass away and then he and I would have a stern, albeit heart-to-heart talk, about his outlandish policies. But today, Diary, wasn’t that day.

  Star Hair and Nail was totally Annie’s idea. She’d been coming to this Vietnamese-run, low-cost beauty parlor where the nail techs and beauticians worked their tired behinds off for minimum wage, and relied on tips from the locals to survive.

  I went along with it because while everything is usually about me—today was actually a little about Annie. More specifically, it was about trying to de-stress Annie, who was so wound up after yesterday’s events with Mack, I could practically see the energy zipping off her like mini-sparklers on the fourth of July.

  Grady’s jeans were rolled up to his knees. One foot soaked in the warm waters of a pedicure bowl while an energetic, silver-haired woman scrubbed his other foot with a pumice stone. He wriggled a bit and yelped. “Ouch! Sorry!”
>
  “You no like?” she asked.

  “I like fine. What is your name?”

  “Tina. You want foot massage? Five dollar extra for ten minutes.”

  “No thanks. Just a pedicure,” he said.

  Tina frowned and scrubbed his calloused heel more aggressively. He winced and peered at Annie who sat at the mani-pedi station next to him. Her feet also rested in a bowl of warm water, while an older man massaged her shoulders. Her eyes were closed and her head lolled onto her chest. “Next time we go to Groom in We-Ho,” Grady said. “The techs at Groom aren’t mean.”

  “One person’s mean is a another person’s dream,” Annie said. “Witness the success of Twilight and it’s fan-fiction inspired love-child, Fifty Shades of Gray.”

  “I did not understand the Fifty Shades thing,” Julia said as a nail tech applied a clear base coat onto her fingernails. “Hot sex with a guy who wants his woman to walk behind him to show respect? I don’t think so.”

  “Hello!” I stood up from my rickety chair and strode into the middle of this pathetic hellhole. It was filled with shrines to gods I was not familiar with. It was stuffed with enough vinyl and fake flowers to launch a full-blown allergy attack from all the dust if I were still living. But I wasn’t, and yet I needed to speak up now and stop being a victim.

  “It’s me, Dr. Derrick Fuller. I am requiring a bit of manly grooming. I fear I’m being discriminated against simply because I’m dead. I would hope that someone in your beautifying community might be able to spend a little time trimming my errant eyebrow hairs, and perhaps touch up my cuticles.”

  No one in the entire joint looked at me except for Annie, who eyed me and lifted one eyebrow. “Seriously?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m discovering that no one cares about your rights after you die. It’s a disgusting way of profiling people and I simply won’t have it.” I stomped my foot.

  Annie shook her head. “A little to the left, please,” she said to the masseur. “I have this nasty knot where my shoulder meets my neck. It’s from all the stress. Derrick, no one can see you except for me, and other dead people. I understand your frustration, but this is a tall hurdle to vault over.”

  Grady’s foot flew out of the pedicure bowl, kicked Tina’s shin, and sprayed water across her face. “Derrick’s here?”

  Tina scooted away from him, frowned, and wiped her face with her sleeve. “You no like Tina—you simply say so.” She shook her finger at him. “No violence!”

  “My sincerest apologies. I do like you, Tina,” Grady said. “I’ve changed my mind. Can I please have the extra foot massage for five dollars?”

  “Ten dollars,” Tina said.

  “Fine, ten dollars,” Grady said.

  “Nice sucking up,” Annie said.

  “Very good!” Tina scooted back in, grabbed a plastic bottle, squeezed lotion onto his shins, and dragged her hands down the front of his legs to his feet.

  “Where is Derrick?” Grady glanced around the salon and peered right though me. “What is his frustration? Can I help him soar over his hurdle?”

  “Oh, for God’s sakes, Grady.” Julia stared at her nails, mesmerized as the tech applied her signature poppy red polish. “Why are you overly-intrigued with that man?”

  “Because he’s a ghost!” Grady said.

  “Annie talks to plenty of ghosts,” Julia said and then coughed. “I mean hosts. Besides, he was a hack when he was alive, and now he’s an afterthought. He’s no longer relevant. No one cares about dead Derrick Fuller.”

  Do you see what I mean, Diary? The disrespect for the departed is rampant.

  “I care. I’m writing a murder mystery about a ghost,” Grady said, “and the psychic who falls for him. It’s part paranormal comedic mystery with a side of horror.”

  “No. Way.” Annie’s head snapped up and she jabbed her index finger toward me. “Let me fill you in on the horror part. That would be the repercussions that rain down on you like fire and brimstone if you include a character in your novel that resembles me. Because if you’re writing anything about me—I’ll have your ass on a silver tray with a collection of those Lucky Buddha statues for sale on the counter next to the acrylic nails and the fake carnations.”

  “It has nothing to do with you,” Grady hissed.

  “Fine,” Annie said. “Let me read your pages.”

  “I haven’t edited them yet,” Grady said. “Trust me on this.”

  “I’ll read them,” Julia said. “I’m a lawyer. If I see any overt similarities I’ll tell him to shut it down. Chill, Annie. I bet you haven’t even heard from Mack today. He’s probably busy sleeping off his massive hangover after hitting the strip clubs with his buddies from the used car convention.”

  “You’re right,” Annie said. “I don’t know why I let him get to me. The final straw was the tickling.”

  “When are you going to see Raphael?” Julia asked. “He can help calm you down with something more fun than a neck massage.”

  “I was supposed to see him tonight, but apparently, there’s some kind of pressing detective business he has to attend to. Another possible homicide.”

  “Who’s the vic?” Grady asked.

  “I don’t know,” Annie said. “Even if I did know, I’m not telling you because you’ll just put it in your novel.”

  Grady sighed. “Look—”

  “No, you look,” Annie said. “I’m sorry if I’m being overly sensitive—again—but I need to relax right now. And by the way—the mani-pedis are my treat. A thank-you for rescuing me yesterday.”

  “You can’t afford that,” Grady said.

  “I got a promotion. I can afford it this week. No arguments. Cocktails after this?”

  Julia glanced up at the large, dusty wall clock. “It’s four. Cocktail hour starts somewhere around here, very soon. Count me in.”

  “Me too,” Grady said. “Hey, let me leave the tips.”

  “Cool.” Annie pulled her wallet from her purse.

  And just like that, Dear Diary, I was ignored—again. I was never ignored when I was a living, New York Times best-selling, self-help author.

  Tina pulled Annie to the side and whispered into her ear. “Incense smoke curling up next to the Buddha shrine. Means a spirit’s prayers are being heard in the Afterlife. I hear the spirit say your name. Do you know the spirit? Does the spirit still wander the earth and want to pass? I have strange feeling the spirit wants a foot massage. Do you think Tina is crazy?”

  Annie stared at the plume and shook her head. “No. But I wouldn’t be giving any foot massages to that spirit. You might catch something.”

  Lucky Buddha, indeed. I’ll be returning to this unsanitary, psychic haven in the dingy strip mall in the near future…

  My best,

  Dr. Derrick Fuller, Ph.D.

  Chapter 15

  Don’t Budge Me

  ANNIE

  Dearesht Diaries,

  Shhh. I have a confession. I’m a little tipsies. It doesn’t happen very oftens, but it happened today. DON’T BUDGE ME! Pleaz.

  Today was the bestest day I’ve had in a whiles now. Mack didn’t Face me even once. Jul and Gradyyyyy and I hung out for couple hours. Had super relaxing neck emsaaaage and pedicure. I have pretty pink sparkly polish on my toes. Bummer no sexy time with Raphael because he’s super busy investivitagating another dead guy. All the freaking dead guys rain on my parades. Why don’t they just go aways?

  Got a little nervous about Grady’s story. Don’t want him always using my life for material. Julia pomised she’d read his stuff and ix-nay things about me. I twust er. So besides seeing Dr. Dare super-on-the-ick Fuller—today was yummy. We went for a few, maybe a few too many, half-priced Happy Hour cocktails at Daddy-O’s Bar and Spill.

  I really liked that spiced Apple-tini. Yum. No—Iz did not drink and drive. I am super opposed to drunken driving. Grady, the love that he is, stayed sobers and chaperooned us home.

  Nows I’m home and I fed Theodores, the mos
t gorgeous cat in the world, gave him a little nip on his scratchy pad, and I’m going to changzies into my comfy, fleezies pajamas with the long-sleevzies because there is a definite chill in my apartment. Hang on while I dig my sleazy PJs out of the pedar chest where they’ve been resting most of the year…

  Okays -- I’m backs! I grabbed a bag of salt and pepper Kettle Chips—sustenance—no food since breakfast and turned on TV: Law and Order SVU reruns. My favvvvorite! Love Livia. So smart that one. Ack! Theodore jumped up on my lap and is now treading his big, fat paws too close to my private girlie parts. I luff him, but not in that unnatural way.

  Brrr! Why’s so chillsies in my apartment, Diary? I don’t want to turn on the furnace. It will smell like burnt dust and I don’t want to have an allergy attack because I have to work tomorrow at my newly promoted job. Oh, God these Kettle Chips are so delish. Like—what do they have in them—crack cocaine? DON’T FUDGE ME DIARYS! I might be tipsies right now—but I’ve never had crack cocaine. Back to the important stuff: Law and Order.

  So, Livia is called to the scene of a crime in big New York park. Another dead guy lying in the bushes. Joggers deescovered his body. She will get them. She is sooooo smart. Hang on, Diary. I am actually shivering and all those little hairs on my arms are standing up. I have a little, warm blankie in my closet. Pink. It will match my toes. I gently push Theodore to the side. He blinks and looks irritated. Always the catitude. Be right back. Keep an eye on Livia for me. And that hot Latino detective played by whats-his-name the actor dude. So cute. I know I have a boyfriend. A girl can lust a little on the side.

  Oh nos, Diary. Something’s wrong. I feel kind of sick to my stomach. Just like when I catcidentally walk through Derrick or he gets too close to me. I hope I’m not coming down with the flu. I wrapped the warm blanket around my shoulders. I made myself a hot toddy in case I’m fighting a bug. (Besides, it goes well with my Kettle Chips.)