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

by Pamela DuMond

  “Bloody hell—I’m back!” A female voice said.

  “Eeks!” I jumped, tore across the studio apartment, and dove under the sofa. I attempted to quiet my ragged breathing in the sweet cover of darkness while hiding from the interloper.

  “I know you’re there,” the female said. “Your ample behind is sticking out and your tail is twitching.”

  “And a magnificent tail it is. I have no quarrel with you, intruder.” My heart pounded in my chest, as I contemplated wriggling out and making a run for it. But half of me was protected, which was better than nothing, so I stayed put. “I also have no money, fancy jewelry, or drugs, except for a little nip, which my owner keeps in an impenetrable plastic container on a high shelf in the kitchen. If you open the cabinet door, knock it down, and unscrew the lid, I’ll share the bounty with you.”

  “I don’t want your nip,” the female said.

  “Then what do you want? It can’t be good: you’ve invaded my home, violated my sanctuary, and I have no recollection of inviting anyone over tonight. State your name, trespasser. State your name now, or forever hold your peace!”

  “You already know my name,” she said. “It’s Mary.”

  I shimmied out from under the couch and stared at her in disbelief. “Mary?” She was a longhaired, puffy black cat, a little on the chubby side, and she shimmered in a mist of black smoke on top of the counter that divided the kitchen from the living room. “Mary the spirit cat that I conjured from the magic mirror last Halloween?”

  “One and the same, my friend.” She licked her paws.

  “What in the bloody hell brought you back here?” I asked. “And, no matter what your answer is, my offer to share the catnip still holds.”

  “Trouble’s on its way, Theodore von Pumpernickle,” she said. “My kind pick up on these kinds of things before you do.”

  “Oh, sorry about that.” I trod down the hall toward my litter box. “I suffer from a nervous tummy. I never believed for a second that the turkey kibble was gluten free.”

  “Not that kind of trouble, Theodore. Dilemmas of a ghostly nature. Being that I’m a spirit, I’m already tuned into that world,” Mary said.

  “There are no ghosts in this apartment.” I stopped and stared at her. “The last time I saw a spirit was several weeks ago. I sat that pompous windbag, Dr. Derrick Fuller, down and lectured him about his impolite habit of showing up uninvited—”

  “I showed up uninvited,” Mary said.

  “I chanted ‘Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, please visit us, we’re not that scare-dy,’ in front of the magic mirror. If that’s not an invitation, I don’t know what is. Mi casa es su casa.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Back to that Fuller character. I put the fear of God into that odious ghost of a man,” I said. “I don’t think he’ll be haunting our doorway any time soon.”

  “He’s not the one I was worried about,” Mary said. “I was more concerned about the ghost with the tattoos, and the long hair, who’s humming a tune, and trying to raid your fridge.”

  All the little hairs raised on the back of my paws. I turned and blasted the spirit with my most indignant glare. “Stop, intruder!”

  Chapter 8

  Paint it Black

  Annie

  Grady and I sipped cocktails at the Magical Mystery Tour Bar and Grill as I plowed through a bag of Stonyebrooke Farms macadamia nut chocolate chip cookies. They weren’t on the menu, but I was stressing and craved them. After my abductor released me from his limo, I raced to the local convenience store and immediately purchased a bag for emergency consumption.

  “I can’t believe they’re keeping Julia imprisoned overnight,” Grady said. “It’s draconian. Can’t you do something?”

  “Do I look like I’m capable of orchestrating the great escape?” I stuffed another cookie into my mouth.

  “Go ahead and drown your sorrows with the cheap stuff,” the ghost of Derrick Fuller said as he perched next to me on the only empty chair at the bar. “They’re chock full of factory created fats, preservatives, artificial sweeteners, and mouse bits.” He eyed my bag of sweets and batted his eyelashes. “Not like the baked goods you create, Cupcake. Share?”

  “No.” I shook my head.

  “Right,” Grady sighed and downed his margarita. “I didn’t think you could do anything, but then it seems like sometimes you have super powers, and, oh well, I had to ask.”

  “As did I.” Derrick reached for the bowl of nuts but no matter how hard he tried, his hand swiped through them, and he couldn’t pick up a single one. He sighed. “This being dead thing is doing wonders for my waistline. Have you thought about yours, lately?”

  “No.” I guzzled my drink and considered ordering another but with extra sugar.

  “I guess Giulia will have to stay in the clunk overnight,” Grady said.

  “The clink.” I stood up and wobbled in my heels, but Grady grabbed my arm and steadied me. “Whoa, the stress of the evening and that one cocktail must have taken its toll on me.”

  “You had three Cosmopolitans,” Derrick said. “I thought all the cookie carbs would soak up the alcohol, but apparently not. I hope you’re not a sloppy drunk. Your skirt’s too short for that kind of nonsense. Uh-oh. It’s too late. I see London. I see France. Perhaps I see your under—”

  “Enough!” I frowned, but tugged my skirt lower my thighs. Gah, tonight was not turning out the way I imagined. But Derrick was right: I did not drink and drive. “You can stay here if you want, Grady, but I am done diddy done for tonight. I’m going to Uber it home. Be a pal, glance around, and tell me if you-know-who is still here. I don’t want to look because I might catch his eye, and he’s the last person in the world I want to run into on the way out of this joint.”

  Grady stood up and peered across the bar. “Johnny Blackfoot’s hanging out at a table next to the dance floor. He’s seated next to a chick wrapped in bacon, a man wearing a fez on his head, and three men dressed in Hugo Boss suits.”

  “Typical music industry types,” I said. “What about that creep, Paul Vanderveen? Is he here, too?”

  “Yes—one of the suits. I still can’t believe that famous rock star slung you over his shoulder and literally carried you out of the auditorium, stuck you in his limo, and dropped you off here. How hot was that?”

  “You mean the washed up, no longer famous, ex-rock star,” I said. “It was lukewarm, buddy. I wasn’t feeling it.”

  “Johnny Blackfoot will always be a hot, shining star to me. He burst onto the music scene like a bolt of lightning in the blackest of night skies twenty years ago. He was all glowy and incandescent like the Milky Way on a clear evening sky, his music raw, his tunes raggedly beautiful.” Grady swiveled and faced me. “They played the acoustic version of Moonshine at Nine at my cousin Inga’s wedding, and it made me weep.”

  “You’re tearing up now, you big wuss,” I said.

  “I can’t help it!” He sniffled. “Can I have a cookie?”

  I held out the bag. “Name me a song at Inga’s wedding that didn’t make you weep.”

  “Point taken,” Grady said in between munching. “After Johnny recorded Starlight on Fire, he practically vanished off the face of the earth. I haven’t seen or heard of him in decades until tonight. What became of him?”

  “His career plummeted. He wrote some candy ass music that made the Biebs look like Beethoven. He composed a political themed marching ditty for a dictator of a small Caribbean island. I think it charted on iTunes for a day in the Grand Caymans and someone named an umbrella drink after it.”

  “Maybe you’re being a little too tough on the guy,” Grady said. “What’s the story behind the T-shirt sleeping incident? I take it you two were involved? An item?”

  “We were never an item! How could I be an item with a man who lied about everything? After the island gig, Johnny scored inspirational music for erectile dysfunction ads. Once a dick, always a dick,” I said. “Every pun intended.”
>
  Grady’s eyes widened, he coughed, and pointed over my shoulder.

  “Yeah, yeah, capisce, I hear you, my ride’s here. Yes, you can keep the rest of the cookies,” I said. “Stop your hacking or I’ll Heimlich you.”

  He shook his head. “But you don’t—”

  “Call me later.” I turned and plowed face first into the broad, muscular solid chest of the man clad in that same great smelling T-shirt. It seemed like Johnny Blackfoot, that no-good handsome jerk of a man who ruined my later teenage years, was everywhere. I wanted to smack him, but my fist still stung from the last time I did that.

  “Dick?” Johnny asked.

  “If the shoe fits,” I said and glared up at him.

  “The one you fell out of, Cinderella?”

  “Only if you like wearing women’s shoes. I’m a size eight.”

  “Dick’s going to give you a ride home now,” he said. “And your pal Elvis, too. I think you’ve both had enough.”

  “Okay, Mr. Blackfoot.” Grady grabbed the cookie bag from the bar and tucked it under his arm.

  “Thanks, but no thanks, Johnny,” I said. “You’ve helped out just plenty for one evening. It was great seeing you and delightful catching up. I’ll put a note on my calendar to text you in twenty years, and we’ll be sure and do it again.” I managed to walk around him this time and headed for the door. “Come on, Grady. Stop staring at him like he’s the second coming. Trust me, he’s not.”

  “Thanks for the offer, Mr. Blackfoot,” Grady said and reluctantly followed me.

  “I’m sorry, Annie,” Johnny said. “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.”

  I was almost out the joint when a wave of broken-hearted teenage girl memories hit me like that time I sassed my mom and she slapped my shoulder with a sack of last year’s stale Halloween candy. I stopped in my tracks, swiveled, and faced him. “I’ve got a better idea.” I jammed my hands on my hips. “Let’s scratch the ‘catching up in twenty years’ thing. Because the way I see it, you’ll probably just be busy with a girlfriend, just like the one you lied through your teeth about not having twenty years ago.”

  “Uh –oh.” Grady’s eyes widened and he tugged on my arm. “I heard a car honk. I bet that’s our driver waiting for us. We should go.”

  I batted his hand away. “They text, they don’t honk any more.”

  “You never gave me a chance to explain,” Johnny said.

  “Explain this,” I said. “When I went to meet you that night, thinking we were together, and everything was cool, and that you were the first guy I had ever really fell in love with, well break my heart and cry me a river, you answered the door in a towel, expecting a food delivery because you were already shacked with your real girlfriend, Belinda, the chick who you told me was your ‘ex-girlfriend’.”

  “You never gave me the chance to explain,” Johnny said. “You didn’t take my phone calls. You never returned my emails. I went to your house and got as far as your driveway, but your mom chased after me with a shovel. She hit me three times before I was able to get away.”

  “You’d better be glad the electric weed whacker was broken that summer. Besides, there was nothing to explain. You’re a big, fat ruiner of dreams, destroyer of hopes, and crusher of hearts. I don’t need your kind of help, Johnny Blackfoot,” I said. “I don’t need your help back then, now, or ever. Stay the hell away from me.”

  I slammed out the bar’s door, raced to the curb, threw myself into the back of the Uber driver’s sedan as Grady followed behind me. “Tonight’s been the suckiest night, ever.” I burst into tears.

  “I had no idea you shared tawdry history with a rock star,” Grady scooched in next to me, and shut the door. “Someday when Julia’s not a murder suspect and the kerfuffle dies down from Slice’s death, you’ll have to tell me the whole story. At least now I know why you slept in Johnny Blackfoot’s T-shirt for a year.”

  I wiped my nose on my sleeve. “It was only ten months.”

  My place was on the way and the driver dropped me off first. I couldn’t have been happier to be home.

  I kicked off my heels, said “hey” to Theodore, and stared up at the TV that was airing Eyewit-less News coverage of Slice’s demise, and the whole UMA debacle. “Shut up!” I yelled at the flat screen and punched the off button five times. Yet I was rendered powerless, my thumb too weak to turn it off. It was like something out of a horror movie, or perhaps those Stoneybrooke Farms macadamia nut chocolate chip cookies had zapped my superpowers. I finally gave up and settled for “mute,” because at least that button seemed to work.

  David Shoenfelder, the Assistant Public Defender, phoned on Julia’s behalf. He was positive she’d be released from custody the next morning. I was beyond relieved and said a quick thank you prayer that my best friend was okay. Now someone could pretty please put a fork in me, because I was cooked and done. Theodore meowed incessantly from the top of the island countertop between the kitchen and the living room. “Yes, yes. I know you must be starving,” I said. “Give me a minute.”

  I trudged to the bathroom, ripped off my crappy clothes, pulled on my favorite comfy T-shirt and PJ bottoms, washed my face, and brushed my teeth. I looked up into the mirror and saw what looked like the budget traveling circus clown version of me—ratty hair and mascara-stained cheeks. Wasn’t I a pretty sight?

  I was relieved that I’d told Raphael a big fat “No” regarding his sleeping over tonight. Yes, I was upset; yes, it would have been lovely if he’d comforted me with kind words, pepperoni pizza, and his scrumptious chocolate eyes, but there was no way I could talk to one more police officer today, not even my hunky boyfriend.

  Admittedly, I was curious as to the last name he shared with Maria Campillio, but that information would have to wait until tomorrow. Right now I needed to calm down and get some decent shuteye. But how was that even going to be possible considering Julia was a registered guest of LAPD jail?

  Theodore meowed relentlessly. It was like he was a meow factory. For a second I feared he might damage his vocal cords, but then realized non-stop crying was one of his super powers. “Hang on, buddy. Wet cat food time is imminent.”

  I walked into the living room and spotted my beloved cat still seated on the countertop, glaring at the refrigerator, his fluffy, gorgeous tail twitching in that irritated fashion. “You’re getting a little wide around the haunches, my friend. Keep eating so much and you’re going to wake up one day and be big as a house…”

  But my cat wasn’t staring at a large kitchen appliance; he was staring at the man next to it. The guy had long, stringy hair, and wore a blood soaked T-shirt that covered everything but his pudgy white stomach. It bounced freely over the waistline of his too-tight leather jeans. The intruder in the size-too-small pants stood in my kitchen, humming under his breath, as he attempted to raid my fridge.

  I slapped a hand over my mouth, stifled a scream, and backed away. Being that my place was about as big as your average Brentwood closet, there wasn’t that much room to go. My heart pounded in my ears and I felt light-headed. I wondered if I needed to eat more sugary foods, purely for medicinal purposes.

  The man turned and smiled at me. “You’re right. I’ve already got a bit of a tummy on me.” He swiveled his fanny from side to side and winked at me. “But I’ll always be People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive of 2005. I can’t open your fridge, love. I think the door is broken. And it’s past time you feed your cat. He’s been chatting non-stop since I showed up here. Pets like me, you know.” He tapped his head, and I shivered when I noticed that it was bloody. “I’m a little psychic when it comes to the animals. They talk to me, I can hear them, and know what they’re saying.”

  Theodore hissed, then turned, and rubbed up against the guy’s legs.

  “You see what I mean? Your ginormous feline was a total puss, a big whiney baby, because he feared that I might steal your attention. But as soon as I mentioned that you should feed him, he quickly changed his mind, and embraced me as hi
s friend, but decidedly alpha litter mate.”

  My hand shook as I pointed to my front door. “Get out of my house! Get out of my house now before I call the police!”

  “Oh, you don’t want to call The Police. The fellows broke up the band years ago. Have we been formally introduced?” He held out his hand to me. “My name’s Slice. Make me a little sandwich, love, and then we’ll paint the night black and jump in the sack, yes?”

  My legs wobbled beneath me. I screamed; the room grew dark and spun around me in circles, and the last thing I remembered was collapsing backward onto the floor.

  PAINT IT BLACK Cupcakes

  aka

  Devil’s Food Cupcakes with Chocolate Ganache Filling

  &

  Chocolate Buttercream Icing

  By

  Laura DeVries, Professional Baker

  2/3 cup boiling water

  2/3 cup dark cocoa powder

  6 oz of semi-sweet chocolate chopped

  2 tablespoons instant espresso powder or instant coffee (spring for the espresso powder)

  4 large eggs

  1 cup sour cream

  2 teaspoons vanilla extract

  1 ½ cup all-purpose flour

  1 teaspoon baking soda

  ½ teaspoon table salt

  1 cup granulated sugar

  ½ cup packed light brown sugar

  16 tablespoons butter (2 sticks) room temperature

  Instructions:

  1. Adjust rack to lower or middle position and pre-heat oven to 350 degrees (325 if using a convection oven.)