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

by Pamela DuMond

  “Murder?” I squeaked.

  “Pound?” Mozart collapsed onto the ground and panted.

  “Didn’t you see it? Clearly, Slick was strangled, shot, and murdered.” Mary licked her paw and groomed her ear.

  “How could I see it?” Mozart asked. “I was in the middle of being choked and dognapped.”

  “I’m sorry, Mozart,” Mary said. “That must have been terrifying. You seem like a sweet pooch. Many dogs and cats were born into privileged breeds and homes, but you probably weren’t one of the lucky few, and didn’t have an easy go of it when you were a baby.”

  “I didn’t.” Mozart looked depressed. “I still think we should tough it out here for a bit longer. Cody takes me to the outside place all the time. It’s not so bad, Teddy, once you get used to it.”

  Mary stopped grooming and peered into the distance. “Heads up, guys. Five o’clock. Do you see what I see?”

  “Annie said I’m not allowed to go to the outside place,” I meowed. “That it’s dangerous, the coyotes can get me, cars could run over me, and that I must be wary of please.”

  “Fleas.” Mozart gnawed on his front paws. “Nasty, mean little bugs who crawl on your belly, hop behind your ears, and—”

  “Seriously, there’s a man wearing a hoodie walking in our direction,” Mary said. “He’s carrying a briefcase and he looks angry—”

  “Stop trying to frighten us, Mozart.” I shivered. “We left my home because you were in trouble. Now we’re in some kind of hellish outside place. Let’s call it a night, head back, get some supper, a little nip—”

  “Cody told me I’m not supposed to nip,” Mozart said. “He even put his hand on top of my nose several times and said, ‘Mozart, no nip.’”

  I sighed. “I’m not going to touch your nose. Just follow my lead. Annie will be happy to see us. She’ll take that rope off your neck in three shakes of your tail. She can turn the evidence into the people police for us, and we won’t get into any trouble. I like living my life on easy street, pal, not sleazy street.”

  And that’s when I heard it.

  “Here, puppy, puppy,” the stranger in the hoodie said as he cautiously approached us. “I’ve got a treat for you.” He pulled a small package from his pocket, ripped it open, and waved something in the dog’s direction.

  Mozart sniffed.

  I turned up my nose in disgust. He was tempting the dog with cheap convenience store cold cuts. I could practically smell the byproducts in those faux turkey slices. “I think that’s the same guy that strangled Slick,” I meowed. “What does he want?”

  “He wants the strap wrapped around Mozart’s neck. It’s evidence,” Mary said and vanished, a tiny black poof of smoke hovering in the air where she had been just moments earlier.

  “Hey dog. Don’t listen to that creepsters with the cheap food,” I said. “And don’t forget you fell for the tennis ball thing, hook, line, and sinker. Think about the mess that you got us in.”

  Mary materialized on a tree bough above the man. “Don’t touch those cold cuts, Mozart, they might be poisoned.”

  The man whipped a small gun from his pocket, and aimed it at the dog. I felt all the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I suspected that I appeared ferocious as well as magnificent. “Run, Mozart. Run!” I said.

  He bolted, but the strap snagged onto a low hanging branch, stopping him short, pinching his already bruised neck, and he yelped.

  Mary jumped onto the man’s back, and dug her claws in. He hollered, and tried to shake her off, but she was like the wind; no matter what he did, he couldn’t get a grip on her. “I can only do this for a few seconds,” she said. “Jump high into the air, Mozart. That will dislodge the strap, and then run.”

  The dog peered at me, his eyes crazy with fear. “Find Cody!” He leapt into the air, unhooked the leash, and bolted across the yard toward the dimly lit street.

  “Be careful!” I yowled.

  He paused, looked back at me for a few seconds, then turned, and raced off into the night fog.

  Chapter 12

  Secrets

  Mary (The Spirit Cat)

  I pretended that Theodore and Mozart summoned me with their silly Bloody Mary chant. But the truth was, I’d been watching Annie and Teddy ever since they moved into my home. I’d lived here a long time before they did, I knew where the bodies were buried, and the secrets were hidden.

  Many years ago when I was young and homeless, I gave birth to a beautiful litter of kittens. I was roaming the Venice alleys looking for food, but when I returned, people cradled my kittens, gently put them in a box and took them away. I was sad to see them go, but they were growing up, and soon they’d want to leave home and start their own families. Those same people came back to look for me, but I was skittish and hid.

  A lady spotted me scrounging around next to her apartment complex and started leaving out small dishes of food. She’d sit on a step and watch me devour the scraps, but never tried to touch me. I raced away after every meal. “You’re welcome, Mary,” she said.

  One day after I ate, I rubbed up against her leg. The next day I let her pet my ears. A week later I’d lain on the ground next to her, and rolled as she scratched my belly. She stood up, opened a door, and said, “Maybe it’s time you come inside, Mary.” So I did.

  Kathleen Barton took me in, and got me off the streets when I was emaciated, starving, and covered in fleas. She washed and combed me every day until the bugs left. She fed me every few hours until I was no longer starving. She cuddled me when I shivered, and sat quietly next to me on the wooden floors when a sound scared me and I startled, which was frequently.

  Kathleen gave me a life when I had none. I will forever regret that I couldn’t save her that fateful night, but I could always fight to save her legacy.

  Theodore and Mozart might think that I came back to help them, but I came back to help Kathleen Barton, and everything she believed in. And now I was here to help Annie, who shared her sweetness as well as her warm heart. I came back to prevent another crime.

  Chapter 13

  Mental Cartwheels

  Annie

  I lay awake on my couch for the majority of that night as my mind did as many cartwheels as a sixth grader gearing up for cheerleader tryouts. Once in a while I’d nod off for a few minutes, but would wake drenched in a cold sweat. Anxiety tickled my brain, and I obsessed about where my beloved Theodore was, and prayed he was in one piece.

  Every hour or so, I’d push myself off my sofa, yank on a sweatshirt over my pjs, troop outside, and search for my cat and Mozart. Around two a.m., a car filled with guys slowed down next to me, a twenty-something hipster stuck his head out the window, and said, “Hey Lady! Your ratty cupcakes pajamas costume sucks!” They squealed off, laughing heartily. I ran after them and kicked their tire.

  Raphael caught up with me, and tried to calm me down, but I sent him home in spite of his protests. He had to work later that same day, and he needed to get some sleep. One of us needed to catch some Z’s.

  Cody stopped by shortly thereafter. I spilled the beans, gave him all the information, (except for the fact that the Anthony Spiggottini’s ghost was in my apartment), and he split to search for our pets. He promised to check in with me as soon as he found any clues to their whereabouts.

  But hours had passed and so far I’d heard nothing. At five a.m. the light from the lamp in his front window was still on, and it didn’t look like he’d returned home yet.

  As much as I hated to admit this, I suspect the only ‘thing’ that kept me sane was my overwhelming irritation that this was happening again. By “this” I didn’t mean too many snippy Halloween costume judges, the creepy spider spinning a web in the corner of my kitchen, or the police helicopter hovering in the skies overhead.

  No, “this” referred to yet another stupid ghost lingering in my apartment. I had dealt with several obnoxious spirits in the past year, but I feared Anthony Spiggottini possessed the potential to be
the worst.

  He minced around my studio, poking his nose into my cabinets and drawers, while he yakked into his imaginary phone. When I asked him if he could just calm down for a bit, he huffed, and said not to disturb him; he was incredibly busy compiling a list of probable rental and code violations. I threw a Snickers bar at his head, and that seemed to shut him up long enough to allow me to fall asleep again.

  I woke a little after dawn, and Anthony was propped up like a rag doll in a corner of my apartment, his head lolling on his chest, and the candy bar resting next to him on the floor. It dawned on me, he most likely didn’t know he was dead yet, and I sensed an uncomfortable pattern unfolding.

  Why was I always the one tasked with telling these newly departed souls that they were dead? Like seriously, no one who was newly dead ever wanted to hear this information. They always got pissed off at ‘the messenger’ — too frequently the messenger was I — and then I was stuck with them until I solved their crime. Even worse, in the case of Derrick Fuller, even though I brought his killer to justice, he still haunted me, insisting that I help him pass to the Afterlife.

  I’m a baker by trade. Do I look like someone who enjoys talking to dead people and solving their crimes? I gazed down at my sensible cotton pjs—they were not “ratty”—and answered my own question with a silent, but emphatic, “No.”

  I didn’t want to rouse Anthony, so I slipped on a pair of flip-flops, snuck outside, and walked down the path toward the crime scene. Now that the sun was out, a few techs scoured the vicinity looking for clues and evidence that might have been missed during the night.

  Anthony’s body had been removed, taken to the morgue, but yellow security tape cordoned off the area. A police tow-truck was already on the premises to cart his Camaro off to the impound lot where it would be thoroughly examined. A few early-morning neighborhood looky-loos gathered, and gossiped amongst themselves.

  “Who was the victim?”

  “Oh, jeez, I hope it was a celebrity!!”

  “Did anyone call TMZ?”

  I approached a uniformed policeman who leaned against his motorcycle and was obviously in charge of keeping order. “Excuse me, Officer,” I said. “My name’s Annie Graceland and I live right over there.” I pointed to my building. “You probably already know this, but there was possible breaking and entering last night at my place that could be related to the crime your colleagues are investigating.”

  He sipped coffee from his paper cup as he checked me out through his reflective aviator sunglasses. “Don’t know anything about that.”

  “There’s a police report,” I said. “I could get you the official number. I thought the detectives would want to know in case…”

  “I’ll be sure to tell them, Jessica Fletcher,” he said.

  I frowned and shoved my hands on my hips. “Jessica Fletcher? I’ve had a rough night but, seriously?”

  “Fine, Nancy Drew. Thanks for the tip.”

  I could live with Nancy Drew.

  “Absolutely.” I nodded. “Neighborhood watch, and all. We want Venice to be a healthy, wholesome community for everyone who lives here. By the way, my cat disappeared during all the excitement. I was wondering if you’ve seen a large, fluffy Himalayan mix cat?”

  “My lady friend buys the Himalayan salt at Trader Joe’s. Says it’s healthier than the regular stuff. It has pink crystals. Is that a Himalayan thing? Is your cat pink?” He shoved back a grin.

  “No. I, I…” My blood boiled. My beloved Theodore was missing, I lost my neighbor’s dog, an idiot had been murdered just yards away from my home, I was being haunted, and this jerk was toying with me. My hand itched, and I wanted to punch him really, really badly. I spotted the Dracula clad ghost of Anthony Spiggottini walking toward me.

  “You’re in big trouble, Graceland!” Anthony stepped precisely on each paver.

  I decided to pick my battles, gazed back at the motorcycle cop, and forced myself to smile oh-so-sweetly. “Tell me you’ve got a carafe of coffee on site and that you’ll share a cup with the President of the Venice Beach Neighborhood Watch?”

  “Anything for the lady who has a pink cat.” He jerked his head toward a police van across the street. “Tell the guys O’Malley sent you.”

  “Thank you.” I made a mental note to tell the Neighborhood Watch President, (if I ever met her), that crime scene cops could be guilted into coughing up free coffee.

  Anthony caught up to me. “Did you know that your bathroom faucet has a reoccurring drip?”

  I ignored him and headed across the street, but he dogged my footsteps. “You’re in violation of Section A sub clause 2B of your lease: failure to report a potentially dangerous maintenance problem in your rental unit.”

  “I didn’t know I had a leak. Go. Away.” I kept on walking.

  “Drip. Drip. Drip. It kept me up the entire night.”

  “You slept like a dead man,” I said. “Don’t you even wonder why you slept like a dead man, let alone why you stayed over at my place?”

  “Oh… I get it now.” Anthony stopped in his tracks, stroked his chin, and smirked. “I always thought you had a thing for me.”

  “Ew,” I said. “I do not have a ‘thing’ for you. I’ve never had a thing for you.”

  “I knew it,” he said. “I sensed you were flirting with me. Sure, you might have sounded harpy, and our conversations probably resembled arguments. But, I saw that fire in your eyes on more than one occasion—”

  “The fire wasn’t in my eyes,” I said. “I had a serious case of acid reflux.”

  “You protest too much, Graceland. I knew that there had to be a reason for your coy behavior. The Spiggottini charm strikes once again. I got that in spades from my father’s side of the family. Why can’t I remember what happened between the two of us last night?”

  “Because nothing happened between the two of us last night.” I gripped the top of the van, hauled myself inside, and pumped a cup of coffee from the industrial sized thermos.

  “Were we that naughty?” Anthony materialized next to me and winked. “Ew.” I slugged back the cup of joe and filled another one.

  “Aren’t you going to pour one for me?” he asked.

  “No,” I said and exited the vehicle as a uniformed police tech stepped inside.

  “Hey, civilian chick.” The tech took a seat next to some fancy looking communication equipment. “You’re cute but you’re not supposed to be in here.”

  “Right,” I said and remembered what the motorcycle cop told me. “I’m with O’Malley.”

  “I’m sorry,” the Tech said and activated the radio. “They have antibiotics for that, you know.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” But he was already deep in conversation about official police business.

  The sun was burning off what remained of the beach fog. The first group of looky-loos had gone back to their homes to get ready for their jobs, or surfing, and the second string had taken their place.

  Anthony’s Camaro was strapped on top of the large flatbed truck. It looked slightly out of place: like a body builder who’d wandered into a restorative yoga class by mistake. I took a better look at it, realized its trunk was still open, and shuddered. Anthony Spiggottini might have been an obnoxious apartment manager, as well as a sucky Halloween Dracula, but he didn’t deserve to be murdered, his body left sprawled half in and half out of a muscle car on a residential Venice street.

  “Seriously, Graceland, you’re not even my type,” Anthony said, “I’m not a big fan of curvy girls who are past their prime. But for you, I might be able to make an exception.” He leered.

  Let me re-phrase that—Anthony didn’t deserve to be murdered by anyone other than me. I felt the bile rising somewhere around my gall bladder and stab at my stomach, when I heard a faint “Meow-rl.”

  I whip turned and scoped the area. The techs were wrapping up their investigation, and the bystanders were taking selfies next to the yellow tape, in front of the flatbed truck. But I h
ad definitely heard a cat, and that meow sounded a lot like my cat.

  I gazed up into trees, but saw only squirrels, and a dangling roll of TP left by partiers from the night before.

  “Wait a minute.” Anthony gazed at the empty parking space where his car had been. “My Camaro is gone! Is that why the police, and the crowds are here? Someone stole my car? Oh, no—all my reports as well as the historical documents were in my briefcase. Mr. Fartier is going to be so upset if I don’t turn them in on time.”

  “Meow-rl. Row-rl. Meow-rl!”

  Oh, that was definitely my Theodore.

  I dropped to my knees and peered under colorful Australian tea-tree bushes lining the perimeter of a butt ugly McMansion. “Theodore,” I said. “Theodore, come to mommy, now.”

  Anthony stalked off, and tapped the motorcycle cop on his shoulder. “Officer. Excuse me, I need to report that my car has been stolen.”

  O’Malley flicked him away like he was a gnat.

  “Officer.” Anthony raised his voice. “It’s imperative that I speak to someone in authority. If you are too busy to take my report, please direct me to the person who can.”

  I didn’t see Theodore in the bushes, or hanging out with the onlookers. Some cats liked to keep to themselves. My cat, on the other hand, was a bit of an attention hog, so ingratiating himself with a crowd of people would have been a natural for him.

  The truck carrying Anthony’s beloved muscle car started up, its engine rumbling loudly, disturbing the early morning peace and quiet of this beach town nestled into a big city.

  Anthony ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and strode toward one of the techs seated curbside, filling out paperwork. “Officer,” he said. “Officer, someone has absconded with my car!”

  But the forensics guy ignored him and kept on writing.

  O’Malley pulled back the yellow tape, and the truck with Anthony’s black Camaro secured on the on top drove down the small street, headed toward a larger thoroughfare.