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

by Pamela DuMond

  “Right. Thanks.” I tugged on Grady’s arm. “Come on! We don’t want to miss the opening act. We’re going to be watching Madonna, Sting, Coldplay, Justin—”

  “I hope it’s Timberlake and not the other one.” Grady loped behind me.

  “Hurry up!” I said as we rejoined the red carpet mayhem and forged toward the front of the auditorium. “It’s a chance of a lifetime. Julia will join us later.”

  “What if our Cinderella isn’t back by midnight?” Grady asked.

  “We’ll find her and rescue her from whatever dilemma she’s gotten herself into,” I said.

  “She’s with Slice,” Grady said. “We’ll be lucky if we spot her two months from now, on the cover of Star Magazine picnicking on a beach in the Caribbean surrounded by cabana boys.”

  “Then we’ll track her down and join her,” I said. “Because that’s what friends are for.”

  Hello Dolly Bars

  By

  Margaret Dieman

  Use 8” X 8” pan

  Layer these Ingredients:

  ¼ Cup butter, melted

  1 Cup Graham cracker crumbs

  1 Cup chocolate chips

  1 Cup chopped nuts

  Pour one can of Eagle Brank Mild over this mixture and bake at 350 degrees for thirty to forty minutes.

  Cool before serving. Slice into bars.

  Chapter 2

  Mosh Pit Close

  Annie

  I wiggled in my hard, tiny seat and peered down at the stage. We weren’t mosh pit close, but not in the nosebleed section, either. Not too shabby.

  Tonight’s show was a ‘motley crew’ packed with every rocker, model, actor, producer, wannabe, and reality star imaginable. If you threw in the paparazzi, security guards, and a few normal folks, you had enough characters for a family reunion. I grew up in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, moved to L.A. to get married, and then re-located to Venice, California during my divorce. Trust me, I knew ‘motley’ the way the Kardashians knew implants. What I didn’t know was where Julia was.

  We were fifty minutes into the UMA’s extravaganza during a commercial break and she still hadn’t joined us. I chewed on my lip, and then reminded myself that my BFF was no longer a teenager. Julia was a grown up and capable of handling her own life, which frequently included awkward dating situations. Like that time she’d scheduled two blind dates a half hour apart at the same Italian restaurant. She raced between a cozy two-top table on the patio with the investment banker and a booth in the back dining room with the actor for an hour and a half. According to her Fitbit she logged ten thousand steps that night.

  Grady fashioned his hands like a pretend camera, peered through them, and scanned the audience. “Except for the excessive crotch grabbing, it’s a decent show tonight.” He pointed to the empty seat between us. “Where’s Julia?”

  “She’s probably still catching up with Slice.”

  “I suspect more crotch grabbing. Oh my God!” He sat up straight. “I think that’s Beyonce!”

  Bey worked the stage and belted out something about lemonade. My stomach rumbled. Perhaps I was thirsty and needed to hydrate, but then I felt queasy and strangely, a tad… lusty. I had a nice boyfriend, and I wasn’t the straying type (okay, only once, and that was simply a kiss…) but there were simply buckets of hot guys here. It would be easy to pick up an attractive stranger and have my way with him. The next afternoon we’d go for breakfast at IHOP and have the triple combo of eggs, pancakes, and waffles topped with a medley of international syrups. We’d follow that up with a little afternoon loving and…

  Whoa! Wake up call, Annie!

  I shook my head. I wasn’t a Real Housewife of any denizen—I didn’t ‘hook up’— and in what galaxy was the home planet of the alien vessel that just abducted my brain? I clutched my stomach, shook my head, and fought my way out of what seemed to be a strange dream. But it wasn’t a dream—just another stupid empathic reaction.

  Lucky me possessed a pinch of psychic ability. I could sense other folks’ thoughts and desires and feel them in my own body. I didn’t personally want to pick up a sexy stranger and go to IHOP—I was feeling someone else’s fantasies: most likely a pervert in the near vicinity.

  “Jon Bon Jovi! I love you, man!” Grady jumped up and down like he had springs on his blue suede shoes and pointed to the famous rocker. But Mr. Bon Jovi completely ignored him, and I gave him silent props for being a sensible man. I was definitely not picking up on Grady’s desires.

  I squinted at the boisterous crowd, searching for the lecherous prankster. A few aisles over, a young woman with too many piercings smiled oddly in my direction. Was she the creepster? On closer inspection I noticed that her lip ring was snagged in her knit top. She was grimacing, not smiling. No, I was not picking up on the pierced girl.

  Five rows down a guy wearing skinny jeans tried to take his seat, but then stopped. He squirmed, wiggled his hips, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head. I realized his jeans were too skinny, and no matter how hard he tried, he simply wasn’t capable of sitting. No, I was not picking up on Mr. Skinny Jeans’ desires.

  “Hey Cupcake! Take a slice of this!” a guy hollered.

  I whip-turned and spotted a man leering at me as he unbuttoned his fancy dress shirt. I didn’t recognize him, but he had to be the pervert. Who was this fool? I plopped back in my seat and scooched all the way down. I crossed my fingers and counted to five hoping that he’d forget all about me; the idiot was obviously plastered.

  “Ah know all ’bout you.” He hiccupped. “Youuu—da Cupcake Killer.”

  Perhaps it was time to upgrade my nickname from “Cupcake Killer” to Pervert Killer. I jabbed my finger in his direction. “Look buddy—”

  “Don’t engage!” Grady yanked on my arm. “You made me swear to remind you to ignore people who tease you about being a former murder suspect. Calm down and breathe. That’s what you always tell me to do when I’m upset.”

  “You’re right.” I inhaled sharply. “I am calm. I am zen. I am practically meditating.”

  “You sound like an asthmatic Chihuahua.” He frowned. “Deep breaths, not squeaky ones.”

  I inhaled deeply.

  “Now exhale,” Grady said.

  “Stop worrying!” I blew all the air out. “I have the situation completely under control.”

  The pervert placed his hands on his throat and mimed strangling himself. “Fannie Laceland, the Cupcake Killer, is in the house!”

  I leapt to my feet and shook my fist at him. “I was completely exonerated!”

  “Ask your BFF Julia how she scored tickets to the PTAs,” he said when his buddy yanked him down into his seat.

  “He means the UMAs,” the handsome male pal yelled. “Sorry!”

  I wasn’t all that great with names but I was good with faces. Unlike the pervert, his friend looked awfully familiar.

  “How did Julia score these tickets?” Grady asked.

  “Where is Julia?’ seems like the better question,” I said. “I thought she got them from Slice.” I tapped my toe on the ground, chewed the inside of my cheek, and realized I was not thinking positively. I could stay here and stew, or go find my best friend. “Wait for me, Grady. I’ll be right back.”

  “You can’t go anywhere!” He pointed below us. “Mick and Keith are going on.”

  “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” blasted to a laser light show that lit up the auditorium’s ceiling like fireworks on the Fourth of July. The crowd whistled, applauded, and stomped their collective feet.

  “Dang!” I pulled Slice’s hair trinket from my pocket. “I wish Julia would hurry up. She’d kill to see this.” But my hand that gripped the trinket suddenly pulsed with pain, as I cringed and almost dropped it.

  Chapter 3

  (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction

  Theodore (The Cat)

  Thank God Annie had turned on the TV before she left our apartment and abandoned me for parts unknown. She’d been gone for quite a while n
ow, and while I liked to pride myself on being self-sufficient, there was only so much tedium one cat could endure.

  I stared out the narrow crack between the weathered cotton curtains that covered our living room window and watched the end of another glorious sunset. Night fell on this not-so-quiet seaside town of Venice Beach, California, as its citizens scurried about, returning home from long days at work.

  They juggled packages, purses, and talked into small, flat, rectangular shaped boxes as they finagled keys into their doors. My ears swiveled as quickly as a jungle cat, and I overheard more than one person say, “Honey, I’m home!” no doubt greeting a beloved pet.

  It was that magical time of day when people across the world, no matter their race, age, or religion, gathered in like-mindedness, a universal spirit of compassion to feed their animals. I sniffed the air and pawed half-heartedly at the window as I, too, yearned to be part of this collective joie de vivre as exemplified by “feed the world” lyrics penned by Bob Geldorf in the classic Do They Know it’s Christmas? song.

  I pressed my nose against the glass, focused my radar sharp ears, and heard cans of tuna and chicken cracking open in dwellings around me, as well as the tap-tap of wet food being spooned into cheery pet food bowls.

  But there was no festive dish filled with succulent chicken of the sea for me—only a small container of hard kibble on the floor several yards away. I sighed, turned away from the window, and trod into the kitchen. I sniffed the bowl’s contents: gluten free, low-fat, turkey pellets again. Was I being punished for a crime I had no memory of committing? I managed to choke down a few bites necessary to maintain my blood sugar levels when raucous music wailed in the background. It emanated from the outdated small flat screen mounted on the living room wall.

  Before Annie left me all alone, she kneeled down and rubbed my back. “Keep an eye on that television,” she pointed to it, as if I were the village idiot and forgot where it was. “There’s a small chance my friends and I will be on TV tonight.”

  “Oh tell me more,” I meowed, head butted her hand, and encouraged her to scratch my ears. Annie was a splendid cat mother, and I loved her—really I did—but it seemed like every human being I’d ever met assumed they would eventually end up on TV. I was perplexed by the hair-impaired beings’ fascination with moving cameras. Frankly, I preferred mirrors.

  I meandered into the living room and took a seat on the floor. I licked my paws, groomed my face, and stared up at the screen, but I did not see Annie or her pals. A loud, boisterous song played, something about a man who could not find satisfaction no matter how hard he tried. But I did not pity him. I doubted that he’d ever been forced to eat gluten free, low-fat, turkey kibble.

  I glanced up and noticed that the people on the viewing box were cheering, stamping their feet, and throwing their hands in the air. What genre of show was this? Perhaps it was a Keeping Up reality show starring the robust family of excessively coiffed women? Was it Dick Clark’s Rocking New Year’s Eve? Maybe it was a news broadcast featuring my beloved Anderson Cooper and his glorious mane of silver hair? I’d cheer for that.

  Two slight in stature, older gentlemen hobbled onto the stage, nodding and waving to the audience, and I realized that all the fuss was for them.

  Show business confounded me, and I grew exhausted from all the energy spent staring at the outdated monitor. I made my way to the couch, jumped up on it, circled a few times, and settled into the corner for a nap. I’d keep one ear open should anything exciting happen. But per usual, all was tedious around here, and I doubted there would be any joy in Deadsville tonight.

  Chapter 4

  Skidmarks

  Annie

  The crowd at the UMA screamed and cheered as Keith Richards and Mick Jagger strode onto the stage. They chanted, “Stones! Stones! Stones!”

  “Thanks, mates!” Mick took the mic. “But tonight’s not about the Stones. It’s about another rock and roll legend. A man who inspired thousands of musicians, poets, and dreamers.”

  Keith leaned in. “Stanley Suffington was a courageous lad who grew up in an impoverished borough outside of London. He went to bed hungry almost every night. His stomach might have rumbled from that solitary fish and chip, but his mind was filled with words and his soul with melodies.”

  “At age ten,” Mick said, “Stanley lied about his age, attended musical auditions, and told everyone he was thirteen. He joined a garage band called The Squirts. They played local school dances and recorded a modest hit entitled Skidmarks.”

  “But, as is often the case with young bands, the boys broke up,” Keith said. “Stanley broke out on his own, changed his name to Slice, and became a rock and roll legend. His breakout single, Slay for Your Love hit certified triple platinum and became an international bestseller. Over a dozen of Slice’s singles made it to number one, and he’s collaborated with countless award-winning producers and songwriters for decades.”

  “Slice encouraged aspiring artists to shout to the world ‘I am here, my words matter,’” Mick said. “‘I speak to your heart and your soul. I make you feel alive, I make you rock 'n' roll!’”

  “We expect to see more brilliance from this brilliant artist for many years to come,” Keith said. “But tonight the musicians and fans take a moment to honor one of the world’s most iconic performers by awarding him with the UMA Lifetime Achievement Award.”

  Mick thrust a trophy high in the air. “Give it up for Slice!”

  Videos of the famous rocker flashed across tall screens surrounding the stage as his hit song Slay for Your Love blasted through the auditorium. Images of Slice’s long, beautiful hair flew through the air during a guitar riff and then quivered across his shoulders while he played a somber ballad. His eyes appeared soulful in the latter, and I could almost see what attracted Julia to him so many years ago. But then again, he was a party-hard rock star, and he just might have been high.

  It didn’t matter; the crowd adored him. They screamed, leaped to their feet, and chanted, “Slice! Slice! Slice!”

  He stumbled onto the stage bent forward and clutching his throat. “Ack, no!”

  “Aw, yes!” Mick said. “You should have been a Stone, ’cause you’ve always been the ballsiest performer ever!”

  “Ack, no!” Slice teetered a few more steps toward Mick.

  “Yes really, mate,” Keith said. “You totally deserve this.”

  “Slice is down there.” I pointed at the stage. “Where’s Julia?” A womping headache clenched my brain, and my breath caught somewhere between my chest and my throat. I gasped, coughed, and my knees wobbled. “Ack, no,” I said and pitched forward.

  “What’s going on?” Grady caught me before I landed on the guy in the seat directly beneath me. “Are you okay?”

  I shook my head, wondering why the back of my skull felt like it had just been hit with a tire iron. I was getting a strong empathic hit, picking up on something, or someone. But whomever I was picking up on, also wasn’t “okay.”

  Slice’s white pudgy belly bounced free from his T-shirt, and he dropped like a non-rolling stone to his knees.

  “Another outstanding performance, mate,” Mick said.

  The rocker fell sideways onto the ground and hacked.

  Images of my beloved cat, Theodore von Pumpernickel, flashed through my brain. Something horrible was happening to Slice and I doubted it was a hairball.

  “Everyone knows you’re an amazing performer, dude.” Keith leaned down and held out his hand to help him up. “You already won the award. Come on. Time for you to accept it.”

  But Slice ignored Keith’s hand. “This is… for the…” he rasped, “…for the…” he wheezed “for….” His head rolled to the side and he lay perfectly still.

  The crowd gasped and then applauded: low and respectful at first, then thunderous, the walls of the massive theatre vibrating.

  I fluttered my eyes, and like magic, my throat cleared. I stood up straight and cracked my neck.

 
“That was the best piece of performance art I’ve ever seen,” Grady said.

  “That wasn’t art,” I said. “Slice just passed away; he’s dead.”

  “No way!” Grady said. “Although you do have a knack for this kind of thing. Wait a second. Hold the phone…”

  Mick and Keith skittered backstage as a few sound technicians raced toward the rock star lying still on the ground. One man leaned down, touched the back of Slice’s head, and shuddered. “Call 911! He hit his head.” The man took his pulse. “Saints preserve us! Slice is dead!”

  Chapter 5

  The Grim Reaper

  Annie

  A collective gasp arose from the United Music Awards crowd and people screamed.

  “This is insane!” Grady said. “It’s impossibly tragic. But once again, you were right.”

  “Where’s Julia?” I squeezed the hair voodoo-dad that now felt strangely comforting. “I hope she’s okay. Maybe I should have gone with her and stood guard by Slice’s door. But then I would have heard all that moaning and groaning.”

  “I walked in on Julia once unannounced, and trust me, those images stay with you forever,” Grady said.

  “Maybe I could have stopped the killer—oh no—what if something horrible happened to Julia? I’ll never forgive myself. Where could she be?” I wrung my hands.

  “Right there.” Grady pointed to my best friend forever who stumbled onto the large platform and careened toward Slice. “On stage in front of ten million viewers. Again.”

  Julia’s hair looked like she’d been swept up in a tornado and she clutched a guitar. “I’m sorry, Slice! I tried!”

  “From the looks of things, I don’t think she tried hard enough,” Grady said.