Cupcakes, Diaries, and Rotten Inquiries: A Romantic, Comedic Annie Graceland Mystery, #6

by Pamela DuMond

  “Waiting until you get a break, so Mack can hear more of that sweet voice of yours.”

  “My sweet voice says that you’re interrupting the first day of my new job promotion. Do you want to get me demoted? Or, even worse—fired? How did you find me?”

  “Your Facebook page says you work at Feinberg’s Deli in Beverly Hills. I found a lot of delis, but only one Feinberg’s. I’m in town for WEPOC.”

  “WEPOC?” I asked.

  “Come on, girl. Everyone knows WEPOC. Western States Previously Owned Cars—the biggest online dealership that has physical locations, actual car dealerships, in the western United States. It’s our annual convention and it’s perfect timing, yes?” Mack said. “I get to see you, hopefully meet that gorgeous cat of yours that I helped rescue, and pick up my trophy at the WEPOC annual banquet. I’m Numero Dos Salesman Honcho. Which, by the way, is quite a big deal. I’d really like it if you’d go to the awards ceremony with me.”

  “That’s super cool,” I said. That’s super confusing, I thought. “But we need to talk about these things when I’m off work. And, I already have a boyfriend, so… I don’t think I can be your date. Don’t you know someone else in town?”

  “Only a distant relative and she’s too busy to hang out this weekend. When do you get off work?” Mack asked.

  I sighed and looked at the large clock on the wall. “Four more hours.” I said. “You don’t want to wait four more long and tedious hours.”

  He winked at me. “Mack ‘The Man’ McManus is in the BH 90210 house! I can totally take a tour of the ’hood and be back in four hours to meet you.”

  “That’s thoughtful. But after work, I usually go home, feed Theodore, work out, and then meet up with my boyfriend, and/or some friends.”

  “Oh.” He looked down at his feet, dejected. “Okay. Yeah. I should have called first. I tend to get a little carried away. Sorry. It was great seeing you.” He turned and shuffled back toward the counter.

  I felt a little twist in my heart. Mack had been through a divorce, was probably lonely, and I was being too tough on him. So I made up my mind and held out a tiny olive branch. “Wait!

  He turned and faced me, tears glistening in his eyes, which confirmed my fears and made me feel even worse.

  “You’re right,” I said. “Let’s meet up at the end of my shift. Nothing fancy. Nothing long. We’ll just take a walk and chitchat for a bit. How does that sound?”

  “I think it sounds perfect, Annie.” Mack rubbed the corner of his eye with his fist. “You have no idea how much this means to me. I can’t wait to catch up.”

  Catching up with old friends can be fun, Diary.

  Xo,

  Annie

  Chapter 12

  A Belle Dame

  Julia

  Dear Diary,

  I was seated at the mahogany bar, sipping a little cocktail when my Zoosk date, Pierre LePeuf, sauntered into the bar at Vito’s Ristorante on Ocean Park Avenue in Santa Monica.

  His eyes narrowed to accommodate the room’s dim lighting. He peered around, crinkled his nose in disgust and sniffed—his nostrils expanding and narrowing so quickly he appeared to be part bloodhound.

  The second I laid eyes on Pierre I knew that my date with the French cosmetics salesman would be short-lived. I didn’t, however, expect it to be non-existent.

  Let me tell you about Vito’s, Diary. It’s been a beloved, old-style Italian restaurant and watering hole in the friendly Ocean Park neighborhood for over thirty years. The food is fabulous, the drinks delicious, the service impeccable, and Florence Henderson dines here almost nightly. (If you don’t know who Florence is, you need to Google her, immediately.)

  If you ever take on human form, (oh, trust me, Diary, I’ve seen enough strange and magical things in my day to know this is a possibility,) I beg you—take your taste buds for a twirl and try Vito’s fettuccine carbonara and the calamari fritti. Heaven.

  Pierre grimaced, checked his watch and then peered at every woman seated at the bar. Until his gaze fell on a twenty-something, twizzle-stick blonde girl who had tats up and down one arm, sported gigantic boobs, and wasn’t even wearing a bra.

  I waved at Pierre, lady-like, but he was smitten by the booby blonde, who was at least ten years younger than me. He approached her, smiled widely, bowed his head and said with a thick accent, “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Julia. It is I: Monsieur Pierre LePeuf. It is my greatest pleasure to meet your company.”

  The girl threw back her head and laughed. “Pleased to meet you as well. But my name’s Joanna, not Julia.”

  Excuse me, Diary? Pierre and I chatted on the phone—how in the hell could he mistake her truck driver-like voice for my feminine, slightly southern accent?

  “Joanna—I apologize for my mistake. Might I buy you a glass of French wine? I know this restaurant is Italiano, but, my fleur, you are a belle dame—I do not know how to say this in English—”

  “A hot chick?” She arched an eyebrow at him.

  “That too. Perhaps, Joanna, we could go to an American restaurant, instead. My sense of smell is so refined that the coarse Italian scents give me a headache.”

  She popped off her barstool and smiled up at him. “There’s a Counter Burger just a block away, Pierre. The French onion rings will knock your socks off.”

  He glanced down at his loafers. “But, I am not wearing socks.” And he followed her like a smitten puppy out of the restaurant.

  Bye, bye Pierre. Au revoir to my dreams of living in Paris, hanging out at chic cafes, visiting the Louvre with my fabulous French lover, and eating too much Brie.

  I sighed, signaled the bartender for my tab and tossed my credit card onto the bar. It was still happy hour and the cocktails were half price. Yay for me, as dating these fools could burn a hole in one’s pocket. I pulled the phone from my purse and hit one number. Thank God she picked up. “Annie, I need moral support. Where are you? Can you meet me for a quick bite?”

  “Oh, hi Julia! Wow—it’s been so incredibly long since we’ve talked. Like forever-HELP ME! I miss you so much. Is it that EMERGENCY health situation where you need me to come and be with you IMMEDIATELY?”

  “You’re speaking girl code,” I said. “What’s the problem? Do I need to call 911?”

  “NO on the numbers, darling. Of course I will drop whatever I’m doing and race to your side, my dear BFF,” Annie said. “I know you would do the same for me. PLEASE!”

  A male voice blared in the background. “Julia Devereux? Sweet! Put that cutie-pie pumpkin girl on the line, pronto.”

  “I don’t think so,” Annie said. “No, don’t take my phone from me. Hey—stop it! No. Ick! Phooey! Hah-hah! Don’t do that! I do not like being tickled by a guy I haven’t seen in eighteen years. Take your hand off my waist, pronto. Ack! Hah! This is not funny! No! Do not touch my armpit. Hah! Stop it!”

  I heard scuffling sounds in the background, a few of Annie’s signature squeaks, and then…

  “Well, hello, Ms. Devereux. Good luck seems to be shining on all of us today. Because Mack ‘The Man’ McManus is in the house,” he said.

  I practically fell off my barstool, but righted myself, fanned my forehead, and amped up my former southern accent. “Oh Mack, bless your heart. I do believe I need to meet up with you and Annie.”

  “You gorgeous Georgia peach. Mack would really like that. We’re on Hollywood and Vine. Mack’s never been on Hollywood and Vine before. I can see the Hollywood sign up in the hills, in the near distance. Hey, Annie! What are you doing running away from me? Come back here, girl! Don’t you want your phone—”

  The call dropped.

  *****

  I hustled out of Vito’s because I was headed toward Hollywood, which was about a forty-five minute drive from Santa Monica if one scored average traffic. Grady lived closer by in West Hollywood, and after Annie’s tickling debacle, I decided to give him a shout. I didn’t think Mack was the molester type, but Annie sounded more than a bit stressed out. At lea
st her latest drama didn’t involve dead people.

  “Hey, Grady,” I said when he picked up, “Annie needs your help.”

  “Liam and I just ordered a pizza,” he said. “Is it urgent? Can it wait?”

  “On the scale of one to ten with one being there’s a spider in her apartment and ten being that she sliced off her finger in a baking accident—I’d say it’s a six and ½,” I said. “Her ex-boyfriend is semi-stalking her.” I jammed the keys in my car’s ignition and fired up the engine,

  “Happens all the time online,” Grady said.

  “Yeah, but this time it’s in person.”

  “Crap. Where is she?”

  “She’s on foot, somewhere around Hollywood and Vine.” I checked my rearview mirror and pulled out onto Ocean Park Avenue, two lanes running on either side.

  “Liam!” Grady said away from the phone. “Here’s a twenty for my half of the bill. I’ve got a code orange alert on Annie. I’ll make it quick. Thanks for understanding. No, don’t wait for me! You’re like the best boyfriend, ever.”

  I heard silence and then hushed kissy noises.

  “Stop with the PDA and get a move on,” I said.

  “It’s not a PDA if we’re in the privacy of my apartment,” he said. “I’m out the door. I’ll call Annie and get her coordinates.”

  “Not possible. She’s currently phone-less. You might want to check alleys and doorways. She’s quite possibly looking for a place to hide.”

  He inhaled sharply. “Is she in extreme danger?”

  “Only if you can die from tickling, or having your ear talked off. Hanging up, now.” I pulled a U-ie at the next intersection and headed east.

  It’s kind of nice, Diary, that even though we’re all so different—we’re still there for each other.

  Hugs,

  Julia

  Chapter 13

  House of Wax

  Grady

  Dear Finley,

  I found Annie crouched behind a wax display of the “007 James Bond” actors at the famous Starlight Wax Museum. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes wild, and she hissed, “Thank God you’re here! He’s freaking me out! Who the hell tickles someone they haven’t seen in eighteen years? What’s next, pantsing? And he wants me to go with him to the WEPOC awards banquet, and you’re not even going to believe what his cologne smells like.”

  I sniffed the air. “His cologne smells like the inside of a new car. What’s a WEPOC?” I asked. “Is it contagious?”

  Mack paced past the wax displays searching for Annie as he alternated between calling her name and telling everyone who was brave enough to meet his crazy gaze that, “Mack “The Man” McManus is in the House of Wax!”

  “Western States Previously Owned Car’s convention,” Annie whispered. “He has my phone! I need my phone back!”

  We ducked and dodged around wax celebrities until I stuffed her behind wax Samuel Jackson from Pulp Fiction.

  I told her to stay hidden. I snuck around the museum to the opposite side, and approached Mack from the wax Angelina Jolie direction. I smiled, introduced myself, and told him Annie had to leave his company for a baking emergency. Regrettably, she wouldn’t be able to make his WEPOC banquet. She’d dropped her phone and believed that Mack, her handsome, gentleman friend, had picked it up and was keeping it safe for her.

  He peered at me and then stuck out his arm, gripped my hand, and shook it for the longest twenty seconds of my life.

  “Ah!” I said, cringed, and wondered if he dislocated my elbow.

  “You’re the screenwriter,” he said. “I saw your photo and profile on Annie’s Facebook page. Mack has a story for you that would make a great movie. You could write it and we could share the profits.”

  Unfortunately, Finley, this is one of the downfalls of being a writer. Everyone thinks they have the next best-selling story—and perhaps they do—but they expect you to clap your hands, get on board and write their idea for free, when you already have a hundred ideas swimming around in your overly fertile writer brain.

  “That’s super, Mack,” I said. “Why don’t you give me Annie’s phone and we’ll set up a time to talk about your idea.” Like never.

  He pulled her phone from his pants pocket, but hesitated and clutched it in his sweaty palm. “Even better, let Mack tell you about it—now.” He rested his hand on the arm of wax Arnold Schwarzenegger from The Terminator movie. “It’s about a young used car salesman who endured tragedy and heartache for twenty years only to survive, flourish, sell more cars, and eventually win the #2 WEPOC Salesman of the year award. It’s just like Rocky.”

  An ancient, tiny female docent with white hair and a hunched spine approached us at an alarming rate, a big fat frown on her crinkled face. “Gentlemen! Do not touch the wax celebrities!”

  Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Annie crouched over and tiptoeing toward the door. “Dude,” I said. “Give me Annie’s phone. Facebook me, and we’ll set up a time to chat.”

  “It’s about corporate injustice and uncovering pricing scandals and rescuing the little people; like a male version of Erin Brockovich. I even thought of the movie’s theme song. It should be “Cars” by Gary Neuman. Perfect, yes?”

  “Take your hand off Mr. Schwarzenegger, immediately!” the docent screeched.

  “Mack!” I said. “Give it to me before the Wicked Warden calls the cops and throws us in wax prison.”

  “Ooh, you’re right!” He handed off Annie’s phone, which I snagged.

  “Thanks! Great to meet you. I’ve gotta run to a… screening. Catch up later?” I turned and strode toward the door.

  “Tonight, dude. I’m totally Facebooking you after Mack collects his trophy at the banquet. Numero Dos, little buddy!” he said. “I can practically see the Academy Award noms plastered all over this story.”

  I gave him a thumbs up. “You’re ‘The Man’.”

  *****

  I slipped out the entrance onto the dusky streets of Hollywood and peered around until I spotted the only chick that didn’t resemble a hooker or a tourist.

  Annie hunched over in the doorway of a souvenir shop across this very wide boulevard, pretending to check out Star Maps and other tourist trap paraphernalia.

  I threw myself into traffic, jogged around swerving cars, taxis, and confused tourists, and made it in one piece to the other side of the street where I approached her cautiously, like she was a wounded animal. “I saved the day, Annie.” I held out her phone, and she snatched it from my hand.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You went above and beyond. Where’s Julia?”

  “On her way here.”

  “Which translates to—stuck in crappy traffic. Text her and tell her to turn around. Tell her I love her, and I’m sorry I can’t hang tonight as I’m somewhat traumatized.”

  “Got it.” I pulled out my phone and keyed in her message.

  “Oh, God,” Annie said. “What if Mack still hounds me into going to that awards dinner with him? He’d have to handcuff me.”

  “Handled it,” I said. “Stop worrying.”

  “I need to order a Johnnie’s pizza and hug my cat. Can we meet up tomorrow?”

  “I’ve got time later in the afternoon.”

  “Who knew accepting an old boyfriend’s request on Facebook could turn into such a nightmare? Get me the hell out of here, before Mr. No Boundaries careens out that door and glombs back onto us.”

  God, Finley, I hate the drama, but it’s all such amazing material for my murder mystery.

  Your friend,

  Grady Swenson

  Sweet Potato Casserole by Terri Billingsley Dunn

  Ingredients and Directions:

  1 lb. cooked sweet potatoes, drained and mashed.

  1/4 cup melted margarine.

  1 cup sugar.

  1/2 tsp. salt.

  2-eggs.

  1/2 cup milk.

  1/2 tsp vanilla.

  Whisk together and spread in 9 x 13 casserole dish.

 
Mix together the following and sprinkle on top of sweet potato mixture: 1 cup brown sugar. 1/3 cup self-rising flour. 1 cup pecan chips. 1/4 cup melted margarine. (Mix first three ingredients together before adding margarine.)

  Bake at 350 degrees for 40 minutes.

  Chapter 14

  Lucky Buddha

  Dr. Derrick

  Dearest Diary,

  The day after Annie’s tickling debacle, her loser friends and I convened at Star Hair and Nail Salon in Mar Vista. Formerly a working class Westside L.A. neighborhood, it is now filled with sixty-year-old bungalows that were being razed and replaced with million dollar modernist cube homes.

  We’d gathered at this hole-in-the wall salon for mani-pedis. Julia wanted to go to a more upscale nail spa with the cushier chairs on Main Street. Grady preferred Groom, a trendy barbershop in We-Ho for his man-scaping needs. Personally, I frequented Stefan: The Salon in Beverly Hills. But Stefan would no longer attend to my cosmetic upkeep needs as I was dead, and he wasn’t. Some day he, too, would pass away and then he and I would have a stern, albeit heart-to-heart talk, about his outlandish policies. But today, Diary, wasn’t that day.

  Star Hair and Nail was totally Annie’s idea. She’d been coming to this Vietnamese-run, low-cost beauty parlor where the nail techs and beauticians worked their tired behinds off for minimum wage, and relied on tips from the locals to survive.