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

by Pamela DuMond

  And if Devin Dylan wanted to date me? Devin Dylan would have to work for it.

  I think you’re a good influence on me, Diary. Let’s get this one done, yes? Every day I spend not being kissed by Devin Dylan is torture.

  Ciao,

  Julia

  Chapter 26

  The Art of Teleportation

  DR. DERRICK

  Dearest Diary,

  Annie gnashed her teeth as she slid her Visa through the credit card machine at the hole-in-the-wall auto repair shop. She could barely make eye contact with the female clerk who sat behind the small, Plexiglas window, and sighed in relief when the message on the screen flashed, “Accepted.”

  “Well, of course it was accepted,” Annie said. “Jeez, I’ve been with this credit card company forever. They send me a ‘Happy Holidays’ salutation every year in my December statement. Why wouldn’t it be accepted?” She eyed her receipt and signed it, her hand quivering as her face blanched white.

  “Deathly tones are not a good look for you,” I said.

  “Have you seen this bill?” She waved it in front of me as we exited the tiny office and walked across greasy patches on the pavement to where her POS car was parked. “It’s enough to feed a small orphanage in a third world country for six months.”

  A muscular, swarthy, oil-streaked mechanic jogged up to her. “Like I told you before, Miss Graceland, we can fix this thing, and fix this thing. But there comes a time when you’re like that little Dutch kid with his finger in the dyke. Eventually he has to take a pee, or do homework, or go to piano lessons. Patching that hole with a little gum isn’t going to hold back the rising waters forever.”

  “I don’t chew gum, Harvey,” Annie said. “How about a couple of those wax earplugs?”

  “Same deal,” Harvey said.

  “How long do you think it’ll last?” Annie asked.

  Harvey shrugged. “A couple of weeks? A couple of months? Half a year tops if you’re really lucky. How’s your luck these days?”

  “Not so good. But, that’s not your fault. Harvey’s Auto Shop is the best repair place on the Westside.” Annie said.

  Harvey opened her car door, and she got in. “I know it’s not good news. I feel awful disappointing you.”

  “No worries.” She started her car and rolled down the window. “Give my best to your mother.”

  “She misses your cupcakes,” Harvey said. “The chocolate cheesecakes were her favorite. Any chance you’ll have your bakery up and running again some time soon?”

  Annie blinked, then smiled back up at him. “No. But tell your Mom she can come over to my place, and we’ll bake a batch.”

  “You’re a sweetie, kiddo.” Harvey headed back inside his small garage. He stopped and swiveled. “Between you and me—I took fifteen percent off that bill. The friend’s and family discount.”

  “Thanks,” Annie said.

  She wiped a few tears away, and accelerated out of the parking lot onto the bustling four-lane Washington Boulevard.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Yes. No. I think so. I don’t know why this is all getting to me so much.” She hiccupped. “I mean—it’s not like I haven’t been through worse.”

  “Stop moving at the speed of light for a second and add it all up,” I said. “I might have died in a silver thong, and yes, that will forever be to my consternation. But, the majority of the time that I was a living, best-selling, self-help author, I wore custom suits with or without a necktie, or at the least, crisply creased khakis and a high thread count polo shirt. I was properly attired, well respected, and I sold a lot of people superb advice on how to handle their problems. I’m going to give you a little piece of advice right now, even though you probably don’t want to hear it.”

  “I don’t want to hear it.” She abruptly turned left onto a residential side street in Venice lined with tiny bungalows that probably started at a million for a tear down.

  “I’m saying it anyhow.”

  “Can’t hear you.” She shoved one finger in her ear that was closest to me, turned on the radio and sang along loudly to the song “Life is a Highway” by Tom Cochrane.

  “You can sing car songs all day long,” I shouted. “But you need to think about your stress level this past year. Number One: You discovered your husband might have been cheating. Two: You became a suspect in my murder. Three: I encouraged you to help solve my murder.”

  “Encouraged? Try haunted and harangued!” She veered to avoid hitting a squirrel.

  “You’re driving erratically!” I said. “Are you on drugs?”

  “No! You’re making me lose my mind! Maybe I need drugs,” she said.

  “Number Four: You realized you could see and talk to dead people. Five: You lost your business. Six: You solved my murder. Seven: realized your husband really had been cheating on you. Eight: You filed for divorce. Nine: You started dating a new, hunky guy.”

  “Raphael’s hot isn’t he?” Annie asked.

  “Oh, yeah. But he’s no Devin Dylan.”

  “He’s just as smoking as Devin Dylan.”

  “Even the Marlboro Man’s not as smoking as Devin Dylan,” I said. “Ten: Other people less interesting than me died in your vicinity and took advantage of your ghost chatting skills.”

  “That’s not fair,” Annie said. “They’ve all been interesting.”

  “Perspective, darling. Not as interesting as me. Number Eleven: Your mother’s coming out to visit for a major holiday. Twelve: You’re still getting divorced. Add it all up. You’re clocking in at five thousand percent on the Richter scale of nervous breakdown levels. I’m surprised you’re still walking.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do!” She threw her hands up in the air.

  “Hands on the wheel!” I said.

  “Right.” She white-knuckled it. “I haven’t solved Mack’s death. Pinky Stein’s running me ragged. My boyfriend doesn’t trust me. He thinks I’m involved in murders.”

  “You are,” I said.

  “Well, not directly,” she said. “And I can’t tell him my reality. He’s such a straight arrow I’m scared he’d break up with me. Mom’s visiting, which is daunting. My car’s dying and my youth is vanishing,” she caught her breath and stifled tears, “right before my eyes.”

  “Sad to say, but your youth vanished when you hit twenty-one.” I said.

  “It’s all going by so fast. I moved here when I was thirty-three. Now I’m thirty-eight and my cat likes a dead guy more than he likes me.” She stifled a few sobs.

  “That’s just a phase he’s going through,” I said. “Like preferring tuna giblets to chicken cutlets. Cats are finicky that way.”

  She sniffled. “You’re being nice. What’s up?”

  “Nothing’s up.”

  “You’re never nice to me. You have ulterior motives,” she said.

  “Can’t a guy just be nice once in a while?”

  “Most guys. That doesn’t include you.”

  “Perhaps the Thanksgiving holiday spirit is washing over me like Mack’s new car-scented cologne. When I was shot earlier this year, and then subsequently poisoned shortly after Valentine’s Day, I never expected to be hanging around on the earthly plane for this holiday. Maybe I’ve been a little too morose about this whole death thing. If I’m to successfully pass to the Afterlife, a positive attitude might benefit me. Go Team Positive!”

  Annie turned her car onto the little side street that led to her apartment building.

  “Turn around,” I circled my index finger. “I’ve got a better idea. An idea that will cheer you up.”

  “Time is of the essence. This can’t just be a good idea. It has to be a great idea,” she said.

  “Turn,” I said. “It’s great. Trust me.”

  She puttered to a stop and hesitantly did a five point turn. “Trusting you.”

  “You should have done that a long time ago.” I reached for her hand.

  But she yanked it from me. “’Tru
sting’ does not mean you are allowed to touch me,” she said.

  “Fine.” I frowned.

  “Fine,” she said.

  “Turn left onto Brooks,” I gestured. “And then make a left onto Lincoln.”

  “I’m not going back to the used car place!” She thrust her chin out. “I can—no, I will—nurse my vehicle back to life. Om-shanti-om,” she chanted.

  “You’re reciting ancient Sanskrit chants to revitalize your dying car?” I asked.

  “I live in California. I do yoga. I meditate once a year—where are we going? And we better get there soon, or I’m going home to clean some more. No matter how much I scrub the place, Mom will find the one dusty spot in my apartment.”

  “She loves you,” I said.

  “She’s a perfectionist.”

  “So are you,” I said.

  “Then why is my life so imperfect?” she asked.

  “Because no one’s life is perfect,” I said. “Otherwise, who would buy self-help books? Turn left!” I pointed. “There. Where all the banners are.”

  Annie hit the gas and swerved left in front of a fleet of oncoming traffic.

  “Ack!” I screamed.

  She punched her brakes in the parking lot, swiveled and flipped her middle finger at the cars that had nearly demolished us. “Hah! We showed you!” She glanced around. “We’re at one of those pricey car cleaning places. A great idea, but I don’t have the bucks for a regular clean plus tip. I own a bucket. I’ll wash it at home. Thanks, anyhow.”

  “You might not have the money. But I have an extra coupon for a complimentary $159.00 deep clean and steam, dating from February of this year, right before I was murdered.”

  “That’s awesome, Derrick, but how am I going to get it. Knock on your widow’s door and ask your cleaning lady for the coupon?”

  “No. You’d have to get through the security gates first. They’d take one look at you and never buzz you in. Look on the floor,” I said. “Toward your seat.”

  “No way.” She twisted around the steering wheel and patted the floor with one hand. “Half a granola bar. A parking ticket?” She held it up and squinted. “Oh, crap, it’s late.”

  “Keep looking,” I said.

  “Two M&Ms.” She popped them in her mouth. “A cat toy and…” she pulled the voucher that was semi-stuck under the bottom of her shoe. “Oh. My. God!” She stared at it. “How did you get this into my car?”

  I smiled at her. “What if I told you I moved it here by the power of my intention?”

  “I’d tell you that you’re full of shit.”

  “What if I told you that I’m learning the art of teleportation? The mysterious transfer of matter and energy from one point to another.”

  “I’d tell you that you’re watching too many Star-Trek re-runs.”

  I held up my hand and mimicked Spock’s Vulcan salute. “Try that coupon. What’s the worst that could happen? It’ll be one less chore to handle before Mom arrives. Tick-tock.”

  She grumbled, but drove forward to the front of the line at Ace Car Cleaners, set her car in park, and rolled down the window.

  “What’ll it be, Miss?” the short attendant asked.

  She thrust the voucher in his direction. “Will this work for the full Clean and Steam?”

  He eyeballed it. “Yup,” he said. “Don’t forget to tip.”

  “Absolutely!”

  We exited her vehicle and walked toward the cashier’s station. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe it!”

  “Miss!” the attendant yelled after her.

  “I knew it was too good to be true.” She stopped in her tracks and turned toward him. “Yes?”

  “What kind of scent do you want in your car? We have lemon-lime, fresh-laundry, spring rain, new-car—”

  “Anything but new car.”

  We sat outside the car wash on white plastic lawn chairs facing Lincoln Avenue for about an hour and a half while the techs scoured her car. She watched them and smiled. “Mom’s going to be so happy that I’m picking her up and schlepping her around L.A. in a freshly washed car. Thank you.”

  “You’re happy.” I said. “That makes my day. Any closer to solving Mack’s murder?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think it was Devin or Tiffany. I really need to have a talk with Bob Bubeck, Mack’s former father-in-law—that is if he’s still in town. He probably already left and went back to Wisconsin. If that’s the case, I have no idea what to do.”

  When Mack McManus materialized in the seat next to her. “That lizard’s still in town. Once a car guy, always a car guy. He’ll be at the Classic Auto Swap Meet at Sam Spade’s Burgers in Studio City, tomorrow afternoon. They’re having a special event.”

  “Who has a special event two days before Thanksgiving?” Annie asked. “Crazy people?”

  “Car people,” Mack said. “Never underestimate the appeal of a sexy vehicle.”

  “Never underestimate how crazy car people are,” I said.

  Annie frowned. “I have to work. I don’t know if I can swing it.”

  “Bob’s leaving town after the show,” Mack said. “He wants to have turkey day at my house—”

  “You mean Bailey’s house,” Annie said.

  “You say poTAY-toe,” Mack said. “I say poTAH-toe.”

  “The point is Bob’s departing,” I said. “And Mack’s counting on you.”

  “No worries.” He leaned in and tried to tickle Annie who screamed and wriggled away from him. “Mack can always stay with Annie for as long as it takes to get the job done. How many months have you been lingering, Derrick?”

  “Hmm. I was murdered in February,” I said. “Over nine?”

  “Shut up! I’ll do it!” Annie said.

  Oh, Diary,

  Life can be a little bittersweet at times. Especially for that guy at the garage who dropped his coupon for a free car detailing worth $159.00. It lay on the cement in an oily patch until Annie stepped on it and it stuck to the bottom of her shoe. I love making dreams come true, Diary.

  Sincerely,

  Dr. Derrick Fuller, Ph.D.

  Official Music Video for "Life is a Highway" by Tom Cochrane

  Chapter 27

  Deadsville

  ANNIE

  Dear Diary,

  It was two days before Thanksgiving. You’d think everyone would be at the grocery stores buying their turkeys and cranberry and pre-made pumpkin pies. You’d think Mort Feinberg’s Deli would be Deadsville. At least this is what I’d planned on so I could leave work a few hours early and go to that stupid car show over the hill in Studio City.

  But, no, we were slammed. I asked one of my delivery guys about it. He explained that a couple of years ago, Mort noticed that a lot of people were buying the pre-made, healthy Thanksgiving dinners from upscale grocery stores like Gelson’s or Whole Foods. So he instituted the same practice.

  Now I was busier in one day than I’d been in my entire life in the restaurant industry. I processed and organized hundreds of sturdy bags packed with boxes filled with partially cooked turkeys and all the fixings for take out customers as well as delivery orders. I’d been doing this for ten hours as my fingers cramped and my arms trembled.

  Pinky Stein marched around the restaurant like a shorter, rounder, pastel-colored version of Stalin, barking out orders to the help. I studiously ignored her because, today of all days, I needed to fly under her candy-colored radar.

  Mack sat at the counter and tapped his foot on the floor. “Come on! We need to get a move on.”

  “Not until my shift’s over. Besides, doesn’t this car event go ’til nine p.m.?”

  “No problem. Mack would love to live with you for at least another year.”

  That’s when I felt irritation grow rapidly inside my stomach like a bleeding ulcer or even like I was infected with the monster in the movie Alien right as it burst out of that poor guy, John Hurt guy’s stomach and splattered blood and goo on everyone at the dinner table. It dawned on me that
my Thanksgiving dinner might possibly be that bad if I didn’t nail Mack’s killer and find a way to send my latest dead guy to the light.

  But why was I so upset? Why was I feeling so tserudert, verklempt, tseiakehmert? And, why was I thinking Yiddish words I didn’t even know? Dammit! I was having another stupid empathic reaction! Someone near me was experiencing a ragged patch and I was simply picking up on his or her shroyft emotions.

  Let it go, Annie. I told myself. You have bigger fish to fry; a killer to catch.

  I gazed up at the large clock on the wall, realized my shift had ended ten minutes earlier, and that I was free to leave. “I’m out of here, guys,” I told my crew bustling like worker bees behind me. “Everything’s labeled with names, delivery addresses, e-mails, phone, and order numbers. Any problems try your very best not to call me unless it’s an emergency. I’m sure I’ll see you all before the great day, but if I don’t, Happy Thanksgiving! You’re the best!”

  I turned to leave but Pinky Stein squared off in front of me, one eye twitching as she blocked my way. I figured out who was shroyft. She mimed putting a phone to her ear. “911,” she said in a man’s alto voice. “What’s your emergency?”

  “Oh,” she said in her own voice. “My boss’s most trusted employee is departing the job early, not only violating her employment agreement, but leaving all of her co-workers in the lurch on our second busiest day of the year.”

  “It’s after six p.m.,” I said. “I’ve been here for over ten hours. I actually arrived early to help out.”

  “How kind of you, Mother Theresa,” Pinky Stein said. “We’re over-booked and under-staffed. You can’t find it in the goodness of your heart to stay another two hours?”

  “I really wish I could,” I said. “But honestly, I promised a friend I’d help him out.”

  “By going to a car show in the Valley?” she asked.

  “It’s really important,” I said.