Cupcakes,Lies and Dead Guys

by PamelaDuMond

  “Next to his syringes filled with pure cholesterol?” Annie asked. She climbed her stepstool to place her china in its new home on the high shelves. “Mom. The average summer temperature on the Westside of Los Angeles is seventy-five degrees with mild humidity. The average summer temperature summer in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin is ninety-five degrees with ninety-eight percent humidity. People die from melting in Oconomowoc, Mom. They vaporize into little pools of liquid and guts on their floors. Their cats and dogs get hungry ’cause no one’s feeding them and finish off what’s left of the bodies. Eventually these people are missed. A friend or family member investigates their house or apartment and finds a tiny puddle of guts, or maybe a toenail that the cat coughed up and they call the police. But it’s too late, ’cause those missing people are melted, eaten and eventually the toenail is buried in a crypt adorned with stone cherubs in one of Oconomowoc’s three cemeteries.”

  “Those cherubs are not stoned. You’ve been in California for too long.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Our humidity is good for one’s complexion. Wisconsin girls look younger than California girls. If you know what I mean.”

  Annie climbed down her step stool, took the cookie tray out of the oven and placed it on a cooling rack. She lifted that flawless teacup, held it up to her face and traced its colorful pattern with her index finger.

  “I’m perfectly okay with people calling me your sister, Mom. But I will not move back to Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. End of this conversation.”

  “Your mistake.” Nancy sniffed.

  “My sanity.” Annie climbed back up the stepstool, holding the teacup. “I highly doubt Larry King’s going to fly to Oconomowoc so my brother, Carson the chiropractor, will crack his neck. Besides, what’s with the sudden worry for Larry King?”

  “Because Larry’s promoting a special show tonight. Came back from retirement for breaking news.”

  Annie carefully placed the teacup on the tall shelf, next to its relatives, the plates and bowls. “That’s nice,” she said. “Happens all the time. What’s the news?”

  “‘Dr. Derrick Fuller: The Death of a Self-Help Guru.’ So is your cheating husband Mike on Larry’s special episode tonight? ’Cause if he’s not, I’d prefer to skip it and watch re-runs on The Hallmark Channel.”

  Annie wobbled on the stepstool. She grabbed onto the top shelf. Her china shivered. Most of her pretty pieces decided to stay put, but that one damn teacup decided now was the time to end it all and jumped/fell. She did a quick Jackie Chan like maneuver it, but missed, and they both plummeted. The stepstool tipped over, she hit the floor and her ankle twisted in a funky angle underneath. Unfortunately her teacup didn’t fare as well. It shattered on impact.

  “Annie? Annie Rose Graceland? Have you fallen?” Nancy yelled through the speakerphone. “Have you fallen and can’t get up? Should I call 411?”

  “No. I’m completely upright and calmly thinking about what you just told me,” Annie answered, as she lay splayed on her back on the kitchen floor, her leg tucked underneath her. She looked at the fragments of the teacup scattered across the floor. “I think you’re mistaken about that Derrick asshole. He got shot, but he’s fine. The assholes always are,” she said, leaned back to touch her ankle and grimaced when she couldn’t reach it. Tears leaked out of her eyes. She couldn’t believe she was crying, again. She was a flippin’ water-spouting loser and had to pull it together.

  “Oh. You’re on Spacific Time. So unless you caught the latest previews, you probably didn’t know,” Nancy said.

  Annie held in a sob.

  “Are you crying?”

  “No!” She said as she grabbed her t-shirt, lifted it up and wiped her eyes. “Why would I be crying? For God’s sakes…” She noticed her shirt was flecked in blood.

  “My darling daughter, you need to cry. Don’t keep all this left-over strudel inside, as it will only give you a bad gut and a bowling ball tummy. Trust me I know this one. I also know that the seventh day is God’s day off. On God’s day off, He goes shopping.”

  “She. God is a woman, Mom,” Annie pulled a piece of broken china out of her hand next to her wedding band.

  Nancy continued. “He looks for the real goods and compares them to the cheap knock-offs. God looked at Dr. Derrick Home-Wrecker Fuller, pronounced him a charlatan, then a fraud and then, dead. And I ask you that eternal Biblical question, ‘What hath God bought?’”

  “You mean, ‘What God hath wrought?’”

  “Dr. Derrick Fuller, the mean terrible man who fooled around with your husband, is dead. Dr. Smarty Pants reportedly died face-down on a lounge chair next to his pretty pool. And then somehow magically, I don’t know how you Hollywood types do it, had a post-mortem photo shoot under the HOLLYWOOD sign. I saw the pictures this morning in my online link to Star magazine. The stories are everywhere.”

  “Oh, my God,” Annie exclaimed as she pictured guns. Lots and lots of guns. “You didn’t send Carson out here, did you?” She pulled a sliver of the teacup out of the upper part of her left breast.

  “Carson hasn’t left Wisconsin since, you know, the incident. He brought me carnations for Valentine’s Day. And adjusted my neck. He’s a good son.”

  “I’m not saying Carson’s a suspect in Fuller’s shooting.” Annie pulled herself up from her kitchen floor to her knees and knocked on her countertop loudly. “Oh. Someone’s at the door.” She yelled, “Coming!” turned back towards the phone. “Gotta go. Love you, Mom.”

  “I love you too, my favorite daughter.”

  “I’m your only daughter,” she said and clicked the off button on her phone. She slumped against the cabinet under her single sink and cried for her broken dreams, her past, her present. She shed tears for Mike and the impossibility of their future child. She cried for a lot of stuff. Guess it was just that time.

  When someone, for real, knocked on her front door.

  She stopped crying. Who knew she lived here? Julia and Grady, but they’d call first. “No, I’m not going to become a Jehovah’s Witness and yes, I’m already born again, thank you, Jesus!” she yelled. “This isn’t a good time. Go away.”

  “It’s the police, Mrs. Piccolino. My name is Detective Raphael Campillio and I need to talk to you.”

  She tried to pull herself up to standing, but her ankle wouldn’t cooperate and she fell back on her kitchen floor. She winced, but she would not cry.

  Rafe Campillio stood outside Annie’s apartment. He noticed the herbs labeled and growing in little pots on either side of the front door in this modest Venice apartment complex. He squinted through his sunglasses and glanced at his watch. He and Kyle had an appointment to interview Fuller’s wife with her attorney in two hours at a swanky Century City law firm. He’d dropped by to get this basic interview with Annie Piccolino, the baker, currently low on the suspect list, out of the way. He glanced through the gap in her front living room window curtains. Framed family photos on the walls. Some funky antique furniture. Nothing unusual. He knocked again. “Mrs. Piccolino. I’m Detective Raphael Campillio from the LAPD. I need a few moments of your time.”

  “Got it. But, I can’t open my door,” a woman’s voice said from inside the apartment. “I’m stressed, de-toxing from tobacco, probably hypoglycemic and recently taken some new prescription drugs,” she barely paused. “Jeez, give a girl a break. I moved, like, a day ago. Besides, how do I know you’re a cop? Maybe my cheating husband sent you to steal my cat, or make my life more miserable than it already is. Oh right, that’s not possible.”

  Rafe shook his head. “Sounds like you’ve had a bad couple of days.” Actually more like she had a whack couple of days. Great. He looked again, this time more cautiously and thoroughly through her curtains. No visible crack pipes or any other drug paraphernalia. Just another day on the job, policing the residents of the City of Angels. “Can you see your front window?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to place my badge on your window so y
ou can see my police I.D.” He pulled out his badge and stuck it against the break in her curtains in her living room window.

  “Very official, thanks. How do I know you didn’t buy that from some Internet site? You’re not going to talk me into buying a time-share or ordering multiple magazine subscriptions. Promise me you’re the police?”

  “I promise,” Rafe said. He’d planned to make this interview with Annie Piccolino, the baker in Dr. Derrick Fuller’s case, quick. Was pretty sure the baker didn’t even know Derrick, but had to question her nonetheless. “Do you want to call the West Los Angeles Division of the LAPD and confirm my identity? I’ll give you the number.”

  “No, I believe you. But I still can’t open my door.”

  He looked around. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so easy. The apartment complex had no security, but each unit probably rented for $1800.00 a month. Yes, most of Venice was pricey, but part of it was still the ’hood. He hadn’t anticipated Mrs. Piccolino would be difficult and that was his mistake. And, simple mistakes cost lives.

  He backed away from her window and touched the Glock in his waist band holster reassuringly. Maybe Mrs. Piccolino was rail skinny, a cokehead, or a meth addict. He knew she was thirty-eight years old, but they hadn’t given him a pic to go along with the bio. She had no adult priors. Perhaps Mrs. Piccolino was armed and insane. Or, someone was in her apartment restraining her. Preventing her from opening her door.

  “Are you okay, Mrs. Piccolino?”

  “I’ve had better weeks. I’ve decided to trust that you’re not going to rape or convert me. But if you’re a liar, you will regret your actions.”

  Great, Rafe thought. Should he call for back up? He peered again through the curtains and glimpsed a huge fuzzy white cat with crossed eyes peering back. The cat’s head moved up and down like a bobble head in a car. Could a possible strung-out killer have a dorky cat? He flashed to the Silence of the Lambs. The serial killer had a poodle named Precious. Never assume.

  “Detective Raphael, please look three feet to the right of the front door as you’re facing it.”

  “Call me Rafe,” he said. First rule in hostage situations: bond with the crazy person. Let them think you’re friends. On their page.

  “Okay, Rafe. You’ll see fresh growing basil in a green flowerpot painted with white peace signs. A key is underneath that pot. Use that to open my front door.”

  “Okay,” he said and picked up the key. Rafe put the key in the lock and thought that if Mrs. Annie Piccolino wasn’t an emaciated addict, she most likely wore a big muumuu, sported a thick moustache and exuded excessive body odor. He’d be cautious as he dealt with this nut-job and get to the real suspects. He sighed, turned the key and opened the door.

  He walked in, looked in every direction for trouble. The enormous cat sprinted towards the open door. He grabbed him, petted his head, shut the door and gently pushed him to the side. “Mrs. Piccolino?”

  “I’m in the kitchen.”

  Rafe followed her voice, looking left and right. He saw her sitting on the kitchen floor.

  “Sorry I couldn’t get to the door,” Annie said. “I’ll answer your questions from here.”

  Rafe stared at her. No muumuus. Annie Rose Piccolino wasn’t rail skinny or plump. She was just right. More than right. Her auburn hair cascaded everywhere. She had beautiful bone structure and her body was a woman’s, not a teenage girl’s. She was mesmerizing. She was also white as a ghost, slightly cut up and a little bloody. Broken pieces of something that resembled china were scattered across her kitchen floor. That would most likely explain her tiny cuts. Her right ankle was tucked under her leg and she was breathing in short little gasps.

  “Mrs. Piccolino?” Rafe asked, a little unsure of the situation now. “Are you hyperventilating?”

  “I have no idea. Why don’t you call me Ms. Graceland? I’m separated, you know. Even better, call me Annie. You have questions?”

  “Yes. Do you want me to call 911?”

  “Why?”

  “You’re on the floor and bloody…”

  “No 911. That would waste taxpayers’ dollars and I’d feel guilty.”

  “I’ll call an ambulance,” Rafe said and reached for his cell. “Why would you feel guilty?”

  Annie waved, no. “Unnecessary ambulance rides cost money. We need that money to house our homeless, clean up our bay and educate politicians on finding peaceful alternatives to unnecessary wars.”

  Rafe put the cell back in his pocket. “Your ankle is sprained or broken and you’re bleeding from multiple small lacerations. Did someone do this to you?” He squatted next to her.

  “No one did this to me.” She pointed at the open cabinet overhead and the overturned stepstool on the floor next to her.

  He nodded and said, “I want to pull your leg out from underneath you. It will hurt. You okay with that?”

  She nodded. He pulled her leg out from underneath her. She grimaced and turned even whiter. Her ankle was still twisted but her leg was straight.

  “I’m taking you to the emergency room.”

  “Damn it, I hate doctors!”

  “Including Dr. Derrick Fuller?”

  “Especially. Obnoxious prick. No doctors. I’ll put a little compress on it.”

  Rafe shook his head. “No. Right now medical attention’s a necessary evil. Wrap your arms around my neck.”

  She eyed him. “I just met you.”

  “I haven’t sold you real estate or magazines. Stop arguing and wrap your arms around my neck.”

  She did. And noticed his arms were muscular, his shoulders built and that his eyes were a dark chocolate brown. “Fine,” she said. Yes, he was.

  Rafe carried her through the kitchen and the living room and out her front door. He was going to miss the interview with Fuller’s wife. Kyle would handle it. And for some strange reason, he was suddenly okay with that.

  Annie lay on the backseat of Detective Rafe’s unmarked police sedan on the way to the emergency room. She told him her mother’s telephone “share” about Larry King and Dr. Derrick Fuller being dead which most likely explained her shock and subsequent fall.

  Rafe was quiet. Then he asked her where she had been on the afternoon of February 15th.

  “I spent the whole day moving,” she said.

  “We don’t have final tox exams back yet. But it’s possible that Fuller died from cyanide poisoning delivered in a Piccolino’s Pastry devil food cupcake. So, I think you need to tell me a little more,” Rafe said.

  “I don’t bake with cyanide,” Annie said.

  “Can anyone alibi your whereabouts on February 15th?”

  “Yes, the mover boys... Turn the damn car around and take me to Whole Foods. I just need a homeopathic wrap.”

  Rafe hit a pothole and Annie screamed. “We’ll hit the emergency room first and Whole Foods after,” Rafe said. “You okay?”

  “Peachy!” Annie clutched her knee. “Sorry about bleeding all over your car.”

  “Do you want an attorney present before we talk, further?” Rafe could have kicked himself for asking her that. Since when had he gone all soft and nice with suspects? He had to stop looking at her in the rearview mirror. But that hair, her perfect skin and that stiff upper lip. Where had he seen that upper lip thing, before?

  “Good God no. Julia’s an Assistant Public Defender. She’s stressed. She’s helped me out a lot the past couple of days with my marital separation, move and stuff.”

  “I mean for legal reasons.”

  “Are you going to arrest me?”

  “Not today.”

  “Not ever. Wasn’t me. Don’t worry, you’ll figure out who killed Fuller. And when you do, let me know and I’ll pin a medal on his chest. And bake him a cake.”

  Rafe looked at Annie, nodded and thought about what kind of cake she might make for him.

  In the Emergency Room at Sawtelle Freeman Hospital, Annie sat on a ripped vinyl chair with her bad ankle wrapped in ice and elevated on a pill
ow on top of Rafe’s knee. The waiting room was about two-thirds filled with broken people. Rafe had pulled strings and flashed his badge to get the ice pack and pillow.

  “So, in summary, Valentine’s Day sucked,” Annie said. “And now you’re here and obviously you think I’m a suspect in this dick’s…I mean Derrick’s… demise.”

  “I’d say you’re a person of interest. My partner’s name is Kyle Pardue. He’s tanner than me, but not as nice. He’s going to push for a search warrant,” Rafe said. “How’s the pain?”

  “On a scale of one to ten, I’d say a seven. A search warrant for my new place?” Annie asked. “I’ll give you a free pass. Look around. Go through my kitchen cabinets. Fumble through my lingerie drawer. There’s a tiny safe in my stick-your-nose-in closet. I’ll loan you the key. A search warrant for my old place? Talk to my separated husband, Mike Piccolino. I’m out of there.”

  Rafe nodded.

  “Detective Raphael, you’re a nice guy, but you’re on the clock. You didn’t plan on hanging with me for hours. No wasting taxpayer dollars. Go,” Annie said. “These hospital people will get to me soon.”

  Rafe looked around the Emergency Room waiting room. An elderly woman rasped and clutched her chest, a gang guy with multi tats held tight to his pinkie finger which dangled from his hand. A pregnant teenage girl’s water broke all over the vinyl floor. They weren’t getting to Annie any time soon.

  “I’ll stay,” he said.

  Later that night, Annie lay on her couch with her foot elevated on several pillows wrapped securely in ace bandages and a walking orthopedic boot. A crutch lay next to her on the sofa.

  Julia and Grady reclined on several large comfy pillows on the floor. They munched on chips, dip and guac. Washed that down with Coronas while they watched the “Larry King Live” show.

  “Detective Raphael was way cuter than I expected. Interested?” Julia asked.