Cupcakes, Lies, and Dead Guys
By
Pamela DuMond
Cupcakes, Lies, and Dead Guys
Copyright 2010 © Pamela DuMond
2nd Edition
All Rights Reserved
Originally published by Krill Press 2010.
Cover Art Design: Michael James Canales
www.michaeljamescanales.com
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any other means, without written permission of the author, except in the use of brief quotations used in articles or reviews.
Digital book(s) (epub and mobi) produced by: Booknook.biz
Also by the Author
Cupcakes, Sales, and Cocktails – A Novella
The Messenger’s Handbook
DEDICATION:
Susan DuMond, my mom. You have always been my biggest cheerleader.
John DuMond, 8/9/24 - 6/9/93. You were the best dad, ever. I hope my book makes you laugh in Heaven.
Kaye DuMond. You touched my heart and have supported me in ways I never dreamt, possible. You are the perfect Step-Mom.
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty One
Cupcakes, Lies, and Dead Guys
One
Magic Muffins
Annie Rose grabbed a festive bag from the trunk of her older VW convertible and scoped the surrounding area for witnesses. Ninety percent certain that there were none, she shut the trunk and crouched low behind her car. Yes, she was going to do something naughty, and no, she didn’t want anyone to see.
Something bright red and shiny snagged her attention. She looked up at an army of large, decorative, metallic heart shaped balloons with Happy Valentine’s Day printed on them. They floated overhead from streetlights next to towering palm trees and seemed to smirk at the mortals below. Are you loved? Do you have a Valentine in your life? Is your honey taking you out for dinner, surprising you with flowers and a giftie? Or are you alone? Again.
Damn balloons. Annie frowned and fumbled through her weathered but timeless Coach purse. So what if her husband Mike was out of town shooting an indie? Who cared if he was a little preoccupied and somewhat distant lately? Valentine’s Day was a stupid holiday. Too much pressure, too many expectations. She would have gladly done serious damage to the guy who inspired this crappy, sappy holiday. And then she remembered: Valentine had pissed off a Roman politician so much that Mr. Caesar chopped off that loser’s head. Served Saint Do-Gooder right. She pulled out a cigarette, secretively lit it and inhaled deeply. Aaaah.
God it was so hard to smoke these days. Especially on a busy commercial street in sunny, pristine Santa Monica, California. People looked at you like you’d just dropped your drawers and peed on the sidewalk. It’s not that Annie really wanted to smoke. She had already cut back, knew she had to quit. But how? Nasty tasting gum, a poisonous patch and anti-depressants? Frankly, all options just seemed like, ick. But she was thirty-eight years old and jonesing for a baby. She’d promised Mike that she’d clean up her oven before they officially tried to get pregnant. Her biological clock, which Mike called her Irish-Italian-German weapon of mass destruction, was ticking.
She checked her watch, stomped out her ciggie, and shoved the butt into her purse. Tired of being judged as a smoker, she wasn’t about to be accused of littering as well.
She jogged down the block toward two white twenty-story buildings so gleaming and spotless she half suspected overzealous dental hygienists flossed the buildings’ exteriors every night. She was going to an important appointment and had to be clean and presentable. She grabbed breath spray from her purse, spritzed her mouth and then, oh what the hell, her hands too. Ran them through her hair, exchanging the smoke smell for a minty-fresh peppermint. Now her ’do was fresh, albeit a little sticky. Thank God it wasn’t fly season. She wiped her hands on the “Juicy” brand embroidered sweats that clung to her moderately toned ass, when out of nowhere, an ancient baby stroller piled high with recyclables and a sleeping bag pushed by a beat-up homeless man, materialized in her path.
She tried to dodge the funky caravan but couldn’t slam on her brakes fast enough. It’s not that she was a linebacker. She was actually a size four or six or eight, depending on salt intake, what dessert she was perfecting, and that time of the month. She clipped this homeless guy’s show - they spun around, cans and vitamin water bottles flying one way, the homeless guy and her going the other.
“Damn!” she said and caught herself on the stroller.
“Oof,” the homeless guy said, and caught himself right above her Juicy. Actually, right on her Juicy.
She gasped. Oh God no, had she run over someone again? Was this victim alive? Judging by his firm grip on her butt and surrounding private areas, she assumed he was. “Are you okay? I’m really sorry,” she said. “I didn’t see you. I’m rushing…” Was he going to take his hands off her nether regions, or had he died and gone into premature rigor mortis?
He removed his hands and pushed back his hair. “Don’t worry about it.” He picked up his scattered recyclables and belongings and tossed them back in the stroller.
Up close Mr. Homeless didn’t seem all that scary. “I’ll help.” She bent down to pick up his notebook lying on the sidewalk.
He snatched it away from her and tossed it into the stroller. “I don’t need any help.”
Annie tossed her ponytail over her shoulder. “Look.” She dug through her purse and thrust some cash at him. “My mistake. I didn’t see you. I’m really sorry.”
“I’ve had worse days.” He ignored the five spot she waved at him as he picked up his last plastic bottle.
“Okay.” She retrieved her bag from the sidewalk and looked inside. Good—they weren’t broken. She pulled out two items from the bag and offered them to the man. Those items were the size of a baseball, plump, and wrapped snugly in saran wrap with a sticker on top that read, “Piccolino’s Pastries.”
“These are freshly baked organic, carrot apple muffins. They have no trans fat or corn syrup. They’re healthy, delicious and my recipe. If you bought them at the Tea Cup, it would cost you over five bucks, plus something for that stupid tip jar. Not to be against hard working people, but I hate that stupid tip jar. Because 98% of the time all those people are doing is handing you the stuff that you’ve already bought. What if we had to tip at the self-serve gas station?”
He nodded his head. “But if you don’t put something in the tip jar, you’re considered a low-life.”
“I know,” she said. “Those service people are poorly paid and I feel badly about that. But, I believe the responsibility lies on the shoulders of their employers. Not me. 'Cause, I’m basically poorly paid too. The tip jar thing just escalates this war within my head, which drives me crazy.”
The homeless man frowned. “Tell me about it,” he said. Their hands touched for a moment as he accepted her food offering.
Sadness washed over Annie like a tsunami. It drowned her heart and flooded her head. She pulled away from him and swayed. Dammit. The stupid empathic thin
g was happening to her, in her, again. Her stomach heaved and she hunched over. She must have turned a funky shade of white, as he grabbed both of her arms and stopped her from taking a header.
“You okay? Breathe. Why don’t you tell me your name?”
“Annie Rose Graceland Piccolino,” she said and breathed deeply, just like he suggested. “Wow. I must have taken a bigger jolt than I thought.” She lied – it was definitely an empathic hit. It wasn’t her pain – it was his. But she felt it in her body. She was still hunched over.
He hung onto her, holding her up. “Sometimes that happens,” he said.
She stood up, stepped away from him, clasped her hands behind her back and stretched her shoulders. She pounded her feet on the ground, and finally looked at him. “Thanks. I’ve got an appointment.”
“Then you’d better get to it.”
She picked up her bag, and walked off slowly down the sidewalk. Stopped. Turned and regarded him, unsure. “I know this is none of my business, but your brother’s worried about you.” She walked back toward him. “Give him a call and tell him where you’ve landed.” She pulled some bills from her purse.
His eyes widened. He nodded and took the cash.
Annie examined the directory on the wall in the very sterile lobby of St. Cecelia’s Medical Complex. Hollywood’s elite flocked to St. Cecelia’s. The directory list included laboratories and medical corporations, diagnostic facilities, and doctors for every body part imaginable. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass directory’s cover. She looked disheveled. This look would not work for her very important doctor’s appointment. She smoothed her long auburn curls, licked her finger and wiped a smudge off her face.
She shared the elevator ride up with an ancient short man with bottle-thick spectacles. He had a red runny nose and rubbed his hands over and over.
“You scared of heights?” Annie asked. Not an empathic hit, simply common sense.
The man gave her a knowing look, stood up as tall as he could, then sneezed and farted softly. “Ah. You recognize me!” he yelled. “Yes, Red. I am the Mort Feinberg of Feinberg’s Famous Deli. We’ve catered every celebrity bar-mitzvah, wedding and funeral in this town. Even the Christians and the agnostics hire us. But no, Red. I never wore tights, or pantyhose for that matter. That’s just another Hollywood rumor.” Mort plopped out two more sneezes, two more farts. “Sorry! You’re probably worried I’m contagious. But Dougie the pharmacist at the Rite-Aid on San Vicente told me I’m over that phase. I’m actually going for my annual prostate exam today. I had a scare a couple of years back. But I don’t think you can catch that, Red. Although, in this town you never know.” He eyed her up and down to ascertain if her goods were the real deal.
Annie hid a smile, which disappeared as she watched Mort rub his hands again. “Would you try this Mr. Feinberg?” She handed him a muffin.
Their hands touched. She held onto Mort’s hands for a second longer than greeting an average stranger. “I’m a pastry chef and I’d love your professional opinion.”
Mort peeled back the saran wrap and took a bite. “Nice texture. Firm, but moist. You ever think about raisins?”
She closed her eyes for a moment—willed herself to go inside, really think about it, try to feel it, make the empathic thing happen. No, she wasn’t thinking about raisins. Okay, maybe Mort’s kind. But she felt zip. Nothing went “Ding, Ding, Ding!” in her mind or body. She opened her eyes and steadied herself with one hand on the elevator wall. “No worries on your doctor’s visit today, Mr. Feinberg. I get a good feeling you’re healthy as a challah. I’ll get back to you about the raisins.”
Mort handed her his business card. “You’re right and we’ve got a date, doll. Remember, I’m always looking for new culinary talent. Don’t be shy about calling that number.” The elevator door opened and he winked at her before he shuffled out, sneezing and farting down the hallway.
Annie walked wobbly down the sterile hallway. She didn’t know if her gait was off from her fall or if the multiple empathic hits drained her ability to concentrate or balance. Then she spotted the office door that housed the key to her dreams.
There were more names on that door than park benches with pigeon crap. How many M.D.s could one office hold? Maybe they were all really tiny. Like they’d been shrunk by one of the many medical labs on the premises in a top-secret government conspiracy.
Obviously she read too many mysteries. Unless she completely trusted somebody, everything and everybody else could hold a deep dark secret, or an ulterior motive. The Medical Doctor, in the Laboratory, with the Revolver. Mike said she was paranoid. Her Irish grandfather said she was overly sensitive, but in a good way. Nancy, her mother, just wanted her to regularly attend a nice Lutheran church, pray and possibly find a single pastor to marry. Nancy was in denial that Annie was already married to Mike. How could that marriage be God-fearing or binding when they had tied the unholy knot four plus years ago in some ticky-tacky chapel in Sin City, Las Vegas?
For Annie it was binding enough that they wanted to cement their bond further by having a baby. She took her deepest breath of the day and walked through that door.
On her stroll to the front desk she checked out the office walls. They were pastel. The art consisted multicultural renditions of fertility goddesses. A shrine to getting knocked up and birthing babies. This place was the mother ship for mother-dom.
She signed in on the ledger and handed muffins to both ladies behind the sliding glass windows. Receptionist Edna and Nurse Jennifer were attractive and hovered around forty years old. They wore medical scrubs decorated in cutesy teddy bears that happily played with their toes and other body parts. Their name tags featured smiling duckies. They oohed and aahed over the muffins like they were baby pictures and thanked her.
“You’re welcome. Carrot apple muffins, completely healthy, my recipe and currently on sale at the Tea Cup and Country March Cafe,” Annie said. She turned and looked for a place in the waiting room to park her behind, but the room was packed. Apparently fifteen other women shared her appointment time. Ten of those women appeared pregnant. Nine out of those ten couldn’t have been more than twenty-eight-years-old, max. Frankly it was hard not to be discouraged.
She spotted an aging former supermodel hunched in the corner. Her belly was as flat as her career and dark circles hung under her eyes. One seat was empty and available directly next to her. Yay! It was like hitting the trifecta. Not only a chair, a peer. Or even better – an ally! Annie squeezed past a line of round tummies and sat down next to the supermodel. She dug in her bag and pulled one out. “Muffin?” she offered.
The supermodel pouted. “Those were art pictures. I don’t know and refuse to comment on how Penthouse got a hold of them,” She crinkled her pretty nose and fanned her face in irritation. “Smoke! I smell cigarette smoke. I went through rehab three times. I’m off alcohol, blow, heroin, and haven’t hit a nightclub in four months. My uterus is pure!” She pointed at Annie. “How dare you expose me to smoke!”
Damn, the minty fresh stuff didn’t work. Several women leaned away from Annie in horror. The entire room of Baby Belles turned and stared at her like she was wearing an “I’m A Child Molester!” T-shirt at a playground.
Just in time, Nurse Jennifer cracked the miracle door between the waiting room and office hallway. She waved at Annie, “Mrs. Piccolino? Follow me.”
Montages of baby pictures, baby announcements and personalized 'Thank You' notes filled the hallways walls. “You're quite the baker, Mrs. Piccolino,” Nurse Jennifer said.
“Pastry chef. Thank you!”
“As you know, St. Cecelia’s is a teaching hospital. Today Dr. Goldblatt will be assisted by Dr. Putter.”
“Dr. Putter’s an intern?”
“Yes.” She opened a door to an examining room. “Isn’t young blood exciting?”
“Aah…hmm.” Annie wasn’t sure how to answer. “Yummy.”
Dressed in her airy paper gown in a mini
scule exam room, Annie reclined on the short exam table. Ms. Medical Assistant sat in the room’s corner, yawned and watched as Dr. Putter took her blood pressure. Ms. Assistant was obviously present to be Ms. Non-Malpractice Suit. Dr. Putter looked about fourteen years old. He had a patch of pimples on his forehead and three hairs on his chin like he was attempting to sprout a goatee. Maybe he was a savant. She checked out more framed wall montages of gorgeous babies and blissful parents. She pointed at a pic of one kid and smiled. “That one has Mike’s dimples and my eyes.”
Dr. Putter frowned. “Hopefully it doesn’t have your blood pressure. Have you been stressed out, um, I mean, experienced undue stress lately?”
Annie frowned. “Well, my husband’s been gone a lot: acting classes and he’s filming an indie in Vancouver. I parked blocks away and ran to be here on time.”
Dr. Goldblatt burst into the room and grabbed Annie’s chart. Now this guy looked more like a doctor. Seasoned. Trustworthy. More salt than pepper in his hair. No pimples. He flipped through her chart and devoured the info in seconds. “Why is Mrs. Piccolino’s chart missing her lab results?” Dr. Goldblatt glared at Dr. Putter.
Dr. Putter twitched and squealed. “Her blood pressure’s 160 over 100.”
“I need her lab results. Now.”
“Yes, Dr. Goldblatt!” Dr. Putter raced out the door.
Annie stuck her hand out in a friendly gesture. “Hi Dr. Goldblatt. I’m... ”
“I understand you want to get pregnant. Please scoot toward the end of the examining table.”
Based on a referral by some friend of Mike, Annie had made an appointment with Dr. Goldblatt over two months ago. She visited St. Cecelia’s lab to get her blood work done ahead of time to expedite this whole pre-getting pregnant checkup thing. While this was her first official meeting with the brilliant Dr. Goldblatt, apparently he was short on time. So, she scooted.
“All the way to the end of the table.”
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