1 Cupcakes, Lies, and Dead Guys

by Pamela DuMond

  She turned on him. “No one’s next tonight, Derrick. I’m done being Nancy Drew. As of right now, I’m off the clock.”

  “But…”

  “No buts. I care about finding your killer only so your ghost leaves my family and me alone,” Annie said. “I care about truth and justice and moles that elevate, get crusty and turn a funky shade of gray-black. I care about finding silver eyebrow hairs, effectively plucking them, the perfect chocolate chip cookie, innocent babies, senile seniors and everyone in between who’s confused about life just the way I am when it hasn’t turned out so rad, according to the plan, if you know what I mean.”

  “So…” Derrick said.

  “No. I’m driving home. Going to make myself a fun drink, park my butt on my sofa-slash-bed, and watch re-runs of Law & Order. Don’t even think about interrupting me. 'Cause, while technically you’re already dead... I. Will. Kill. You. Again. If I have to. I promise.”

  “But…”

  They reached her car. It was still green. Kind-of. It was spray-painted in tall large white letters with an inspirational message. “Ho.” The author was thorough in that the message was painted on all four sides of her car.

  “Fuck,” Annie said. She stomped her foot and winced when that hurt.

  “Based on my research, I do believe that’s part of the ‘Ho,’ business,” Derrick said.

  The Observer slouched on the sidewalk about fifty yards down the street from Annie’s car. Tossed a can of spray paint into a rain vent in a gutter. The Observer walked a couple of feet, then slumped in a doorway of a padlocked storefront and leaned against a security gate. Lifted a bottle in a paper bag to the opening in the parka’s hood and took a swig. Smiled at Annie’s dismay when she discovered her car-o-gram.

  Annie stuck the key in the car door. Her hands were shaking and it took her about three attempts before she actually got the key in the lock.

  Derrick put a dead finger in his mouth and chewed on a nail. “Do you want to talk about this? Emote? Open your heart? Get things off your chest? Share a dialogue about what you’re feeling?”

  “It’s a threat. Just like Julia warned. Someone’s watching me investigate and that person’s getting pissed off.” She pulled her cell from her purse and made a call.

  Carson answered. “Packers should have won.”

  “Blame Brett Favre, the traitor. Carson, considering I’ve never had a gun, always hated guns, but I now believe someone’s threatening me, what kind of gun do you recommend I get?” Annie asked.

  “A hammerless revolver. Like a .38 special. And it’s nice for you girly types because it won’t snag your clothing. Takes five days for the gun check. Hey, why don’t you just crush the idiot like you did my poor innocent Peeps?”

  “Good God, Carson, I was two years old. That was thirty-six years ago and my First Major Life Debacle. I’ve apologized a hundred times. Are we ever going to get past this?”

  “Did Peeps get past it? What’s your threat? Better be good,” Carson replied.

  The Observer pulled the bottle out of the bag, took another slug and examined the label. “Natural Holistic Virility Enhancer.” Ingredients included: Folic Acid, Vitamins A, B, C, D, Calcium, Spirulina, Wheat Grass….” The Observer pulled something else out of a pocket and stroked it. It was cool and smooth, had no wheat grass, but could still pack a punch. It was a .44 caliber handgun. The Observer aimed the gun at Annie.

  Oatmeal cookies filed with big raisin chunks lay on a cooling rack on Annie’s kitchen counter. She munched on one, leaned over and checked on more cookies baking in the oven.

  Derrick did push-ups on her living room floor. “I don’t know what the big deal is. We should be out investigating the next suspect in my murder.”

  Annie tossed a cookie at his head, grabbed a pen and hung over her kitchen counter. She made notes on a legal pad filled with names, addresses and phone numbers of auto paint places and gun shops. Already scribbled on the pad were notations filled with names like Joe and Clyde and Boo and numbers like .22, .38 and .44.

  Derrick reached for the cookie. But it lay there untouched on the floor. His blue hand couldn’t pick it up. “You are incredibly mean,” he pouted.

  “And you’re as much fun as an enema. I’ve got to deal with my car. Possibly get some kind of weapon, like a gun. Damn I hate guns. I’m running out of cash and I have to work. My savings are tapped. No one’s going to pay my bills except for me.”

  The phone rang. Annie checked caller ID. She picked up. “Hey there, Mom. What’s up?”

  “I understand you called Carson last night and wished him Happy Christmas,” Nancy said.

  “Huh?”

  “You called your brother and told him, I quote, “Ho, ho, ho.” You called Pa recently, multiple times, in the middle of the night. And, you talked with Aunt Susan. Did you call your mother? No. When’s the last time you called your mother? I don’t remember. Get a pen.”

  “Why?” Annie asked.

  “Because you need to write down my phone number. I think you forgot it.”

  “I know your phone number.”

  “Well, unless you’re mad at me or don’t love your mother, there’s a third possibility why you haven’t called me. The Oconomowoc Tomahawk had an article in the C-section that says stressed out women in their late thirties and forties and going through marital difficulties most likely have high blood pressure and don’t know it. What’s your blood pressure?”

  Annie broke into a sweat and fanned her face. “My blood pressure’s fine.”

  “You answered too quickly. There’s something wrong with your blood pressure.”

  “You’re right, Mom. It’s incredibly low. It’s so low that sometimes I forget who I’m talking to on the phone. Oops. Who are you, again? No, I don’t talk to strangers. Must go.” She tried to put down the phone, but the high-pitched mom tone ran from the phone up her arm like a bolt of electricity and she jumped.

  “Don’t pull that ‘Who are you?’ thing on me. I’m your mother. I invented it. I know you might have high or low blood pressure. Give.”

  Annie glanced at Derrick who was trying to lick the cookie that lay on the floor. Teddy slapped it away from him. “Your cat’s mean, too,” Derrick said.

  Annie tapped on the phone and made crumply whooshing static sounds. “Bra ing up… Bra... Luv... B....” She hung up the phone. “Good boy, Teddy.”

  She grabbed her wallet from her purse on the countertop and pulled out a business card . She dialed the phone. It rang.

  A friendly voice answered. “Feinberg’s Famous Deli. How can I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak with Mort Feinberg, please,” Annie said.

  It was the back back kitchen of Mort Feinberg’s Famous Deli. Annie knew this because the sign on top of the doorway in front of her read, “Feinberg’s Famous Deli’s Back Back Kitchen.” This medium-sized room was an industrial kitchen equipped with multiple spacious countertops. Two huge refrigerator-freezer combos and several enormous ovens filled the room’s periphery.

  Through the doorway, Annie caught glimpses of the servers and other restaurant help rush about in the back kitchen. They grabbed dishes from prep tables on their way through the front kitchen to serve patrons in the actual restaurant. She sighed. It would have been nice to be in the back or the front kitchen of Feinberg’s Famous Deli, but Mort was doing a huge favor just hiring her. She was in the bowels of deli-dom, where only serious workers tread. Annie caught a glimpse of her reflection in the shiny metal refrigerator. She was covered in appropriate public health attire. This included a hairnet, plastic hygienic gloves, a facemask and plastic goggles.

  Derrick sat on a countertop and regarded her. “You look like a beekeeper, my little honeypot,” he said.

  She punched out cookies from flattened dough on the counter top and placed them onto enormous baking sheets. “I am not your honeypot, and I do not look like a beekeeper. I look like an extremely responsible, professional baker.”

  A
teenage boy dressed in similar attire walked into the back back kitchen. “Hey, new girl. Bzzzzz.”

  Derrick laughed.

  Annie threw a wad of dough at him.

  Derrick ducked, but he was too late and the dough flew through his head.

  It hit the teenage boy in the face. He peeled it off his cheek, popped it in his mouth and ate it. “That’s some brainiac tasting dough, man. Don’t mean to offend. I’m Zach and I’m an actor. You know, just here to pay the bills till I get picked up for a reality gig, or as the romantic new guy on that teen show.”

  “Sorry, I wasn’t aiming at you. My name’s Annie.”

  “Aim at me whenever you want. I’m resilient. I’m going to make it some day. Like Brad Pitt. Or Harrison Damon. How about you? What are you going to be some day?”

  Great question, Annie thought. “Working on that.” She punched out more cookies.

  “Cool. So like, you’ve got a boyfriend?”

  “So like, I’m a little old for you.”

  “Oh. I’d do—I mean go for an older chick. Twenty-one through twenty-five, I’m down with that. You busy Friday night?” Zach asked.

  She was tempted to say, “You could be my love child.” Then thought if she couldn’t have her own children, possibly she could date one. (Legal age, of course.) But decided to stick with, “Yeah. Sorry.”

  “Okay,” Zach said. Lifted and carried several trays of cookies into the ‘Back Kitchen.’

  When Derrick materialized and eyed Zach. “Stop flirting with the Captain Crunch crowd, Annie. You haven’t spent one second today investigating who killed me.”

  “I’ve knocked out twenty-five thousand cookies. Thanks for noticing my hard work.” She scratched the top of her hair net with her antiseptic gloves.

  “Sweetie, I don’t care if you put the cinnamon in the bun. I need to know who killed me. Let’s call a two star suspect. How tough can a two star be?” Derrick said. “Call Lewis, my kind-of attorney.”

  “I’m exhausted,” Annie said.

  “I can keep you up all night,” Derrick replied and swiveled his hips from side to side. Then front to back.

  Nice to know he impressed himself. As far as Annie was concerned, Derrick’s silver Pucci package wasn’t growing prettier. “By not doing anything useful or fun.” She pulled off her hair net and held it out to him. “Put this over your thong.”

  “I can’t. Nothing sticks.”

  Frustrated, she grabbed a stick of butter from the counter and jammed it on the inside of the hair net. “Can you do nothing without me?” She threw it at him. And it stuck. Right over his metallic shiny silver package. They both regarded it, surprised.

  “Wow. That was just like Pin the Tail on the Donkey,” Annie said. “Fine. You’re just lucky I’m in a generous mood. What’s your attorney’s number?”

  “Lewis Scuchiani. 310/555-1010. You’re the best empath, ever.”

  She grabbed the phone on the bakery wall and dialed. “Let me make one thing clear, Derrick. At this point in my life I can only be one hundred percent squeaky clean honest. Do you understand? I am like George Washington. I cannot tell a lie. I’m only doing this to get rid of you.”

  “Law offices of Strunckle, Carbunkle, and Goldstein. How may I direct your call?” the professional-sounding female voice said over the phone.

  Annie leaned against the wall, panicked, and fanned her face. She adopted a falsetto English accent. “I’m inquiring about Attorney Lewis Schuchiani, please.”

  “Who might I say is calling?”

  “My name is…” she waved at Derrick for help.

  “Myra.”

  “My name is Duchess Myra Stoneycliff. I live most of the year in Switzerland on my husband’s estate with herds of round fuzzy sheep bleating in our grassy fields next to the singing swans on our idyllic mountain lake. Swiss mountain dogs carry our domestic product, otherwise known as …” Annie jumped up and down in front of Derrick to distract him as he tried to touch the hairnet on his doodle, or more likely his doodle under the hairnet.

  “Cheese,” he said.

  “Stoneycliff Swiss Cheese down to the village three times a week,” Annie said into the phone. “We are a small but proud boutique Swiss cheese farm. The duke and I are visiting America to support the United Sheepherders in their fight against corporate cheese mongering. We at Stoneycliff are dedicated to the plight of the little cheese person industry. The cottage cheese, so to speak”

  Derrick rolled his eyes and made the universal symbol for zip it across his pale lips.

  But Annie could not shut up. “While we’re stateside, we must see our dear Lewis. His mumsy, my BFF, told me to look him up. We go way back. I tapped his precious bare bottom on my knee when he was but a wee one and being naughty. Unless I’m mistaken, there is a big celebration coming up for Lewis, in the near future.”

  “Mumsy, I mean Roberta’s people probably sent you the press release. Our firm is having a small intimate reception at our office for Lewis on March 7th for making junior partner.”

  “That’s five days from now.” Annie frowned and wiped flour off her face and forehead. She’d hoped to smash an ice pick through Derrick’s head, oops, give up Derrick’s ghost before then. “That’s smashing, Dahling.”

  “I’m sure Lewis will be thrilled to see you, Duchess. The reception’s at seven p.m. and winds down around eight thirty. I’ll put you and the duke on our list. Do you want me to messenger you that information along with our address?”

  “No, no. We must save the trees. We might need them for something, someday. Cheerio!” Annie said and hung up the phone. “Thanks, Derrick. You can’t let me have one moment to myself? One day to relax?” She paced. “I sounded like a moron, and no one will believe me when I try and figure out who killed you.”

  “The receptionist at a major law firm believed you.” Derrick said.

  “She was a polite liar.”

  “No. I would have pretended to be a former client. But you took the lie to an evolved level. Duchess Myra Stoneycliff? Why?”

  “Because everybody in America wants to meet royalty.”

  Derrick burst into laughter.

  Annie giggled.

  Zach walked into the back back kitchen and grabbed the rolling pin from the counter. Annie’s hairnet dropped off of Derrick’s thong, actually the well-positioned rolling pin, and fell to the floor, butter side down. “Yo, baby. Change your mind about Friday, let me know.” Zach winked and walked off.

  “Does nothing stick to you?” Annie asked Derrick.

  “You stick to me. I depend on you. I’m crazy about you. Let’s try another suspect.”

  “Shut up,” she said, slipped her time card in the machine on the wall and clocked out. Replaced it in the little metal bin mounted on the wall.

  “It’s early! Just one more. I promise. I know. The guy who shot me! Let’s check out his porno daughter. Please. I found out where her next movie is shooting.”

  “How?” Annie asked.

  “Hello, we live in L.A. It’s called industry talk. I spotted a cute guy noshing a bagel and overheard him yapping on his cell.”

  Annie shook her head. “No. I’ve been up since four thirty a.m. It’s now three p.m.”

  “Practically breakfast time for the porn industry. I promise we’ll be in and out quickly.”

  “I will not even comment on your comment.”

  Ho-Ho Holiday Cookies

  Description: Cookies of all varieties. Oatmeal raisin. Butter with little decorative sprinkles. Chocolate anything – the list is endless. Let your taste buds take you on a sleigh ride.

  Appropriate Occasions: Holidays of all sorts. ‘Ho-ing’ the business. Researching guns.

  Best Served With: One working oven. More creative lying. Stick the Hairnet on the Doodle – The Party Game.

  Fifteen

  Peanut Butter Fluffers

  Annie exited her rent-a-wreck parked with eighty-plus other cars of all makes and models, next to a grassy subu
rban curb. A tacky, valley, palace-like, 1970s ‘please make it fancy and baroque’ house sat on a large suburban lot at the end of a cul-de-sac. Everyone seemed to be walking in the direction of that house, so she followed their lead.

  She was dressed in a conservative two-year-old designer suit from the Beverly Hills’ Women’s Thrift Shop. Derrick made her stop there on their way to the valley. She’d picked it up for nickels on the dollar. God bless those super-blessed ladies for donating clothing they simply couldn’t wear to more than two, three max, official functions.

  Annie also wore bottle thick cat-eye spectacles, low heels and a matching bag. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun. Nose in the air, chin up, she carried a legal pad and walked confidently (she was faking), in order to make it past the first hurdle: a skinny twenty something kid with his trousers hanging down his butt. He was holding a clipboard and texting on his Blackberry.

  “I can do this,” she muttered.

  “I have every faith in you,” Derrick replied.

  She strode past a white sign handwritten in black sharpie that was duct taped to a telephone pole. It read, “Bellywood Two: Curry and Curvier.” A second handwritten sign below it read, “Cowpoke This.”

  Annie smiled. “Cake. No problem. Why was I worried?”

  “What do you think the ‘wood’ stands for in—”

  “Shut up, pervert.”

  When the skinny kid grabbed her arm and stopped her.

  “This is a closed set, Ma’am.”

  Annie checked him out. “Thank you. But it’s Ms., not Ma’am. I am on your list, unless they didn’t update you. I hate when that happens. Bureaucracy sucks, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Skinny checked his smudged call-sheet list of official designated peeps allowed on the porn movie set. “I’ve got a note about a new actress. A Holly Cum Ezy.” He eyed Annie, not lasciviously. More like a lab experiment or a Petri dish sprouting mold, which could produce a new antibiotic. He aimed his camera phone at her and snapped a pic. “You her?”