“I’m thorry? You thaid?” Annie asked.
Ginger looked at her oddly. “Don’t do a deep lunge without proper knee-ankle alignment.”
“Yeth, I unerthand.” Annie mentally whipped through her remaining active brain cells to identify the because of her new lisp.
Ginger regarded her, concerned, and whipped her hand off Annie’s knee. “Stop exercising, immediately. Are you dizzy? Tingly? History of stroke in your family?”
“No throke!” Annie said. What was it? Her taste buds popped up, like three geeky high school students in the front row waving their hands high in the air. They had the answer. They said, “Peanut Butter Mouth.”
“Do you prether Thiffy or Peter Pan? Thooth or crunthy?” Annie asked.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ginger huffed.
“Oh, yeth you do. You’re theriously addicted to peanuth butther. Even now ath we work out, all you think abouth is peanuth butther. I underthand. Ith Kettle potato chipth for me.”
“So, Derrick told you my secret,” Ginger said. “That means you’re one of Derrick’s Darlings.”
“I have never been a Darling!” Annie said.
“Fine. There was never only one, as far as I know, in Derrick’s life. He promised me a hot career and some great modeling gigs. He came through. I miss the skinny little runt.”
“I don’t,” Annie said.
“Ginger always told me I was lean and mean.” Derrick pouted.
“Who do you think killed Derrick? And why?” Annie asked.
“I don’t know,” Ginger said. “Someone who was jealous of Derrick. His lifestyle. Someone he hung out with.”
Annie grimaced and shook out her left leg.
“Will today’s session be two hundred dollars in cash or check?” Ginger asked.
There went the money for a third of her electric bill.
Annie wobbled toward the time card slot in Feinberg’s Famous Deli’s Back Back Kitchen. Her legs quivered. She placed her hands behind her thighs and helped them walk forward. She could barely lift her arms up to put the timecard in the slot.
“Hurry up,” Derrick said. “If you’re late, his assistant will cancel your appointment and you won’t get in for another three months. They’re brutal over there, I’m warning you. This might be your toughest interview yet.”
Great, she thought as she waddled off. What could be worse? Would they make her eat worms? Cover her in honey and drop her hog-tied onto an anthill? Recall caffeine? Force her to go vegan?
Annie stood on the sidewalk under the white, twenty-story building complex. The large sign out front of the two tall rectangular buildings read, “St. Cecelia’s Medical Offices.” Lovely. She was back at the scene of the original crime. The joyful Valentine’s Day when she was poked and prodded in her privates and stabbed in the heart when she received photos of her husband cheating with the most irritating man in the world. What a difference a few minutes could make.
A guy walked past Annie. He yapped on his blue tooth while he sucked on a cigarette, the smoke curling toward heaven. She stared at him, closed her eyes and sniffed. The cigarette was American, not a light, not menthol and would taste so friggin’ good right now that she actually considered biting the guy. She dug through her purse for a patch. No patch. God damn it, no patch! Now would be the perfect time for one last smoke. Just one last teeny-tiny smoke and she’d say goodbye to this old lover, forever. For good. Really, she meant it this time.
Derrick watched Annie eyeing the smoking man. “No!” He hollered and stepped between her and the man.
Annie strode through Derrick, walked up to the man and tapped him on his shoulder. He turned, looked at her, curious, and blew smoke in her face. She inhaled and smiled. “Excuse me, Sir,” she said. “Can I bum a smoke?”
He nodded at her. “Yeah, probably straight to DVD,” he said, dug though his pocket, pulled out a pack of smokes, smacked the bottom and a cig popped out.
Annie’s hand trembled as she pulled the cig out of the pack. “Thank you,” she said.
“Welcome,” the man said and walked off.
Annie held the cig to her nose. Smelled it. Stuck it in her mouth. Dug through her purse and realized she had nothing to light it. “Damn!” she said.
“No!” Derrick exclaimed. “You’ve gone weeks without a smoke. You are not going back. I promise—you will quit smoking.”
“You’re dead,” Annie said.
“You will be soon, too, if you keep smoking,” Derrick countered.
“You’re dead and you never smoked.”
“Oh please,” Derrick said and smiled, smug. “‘Smoking’ isn’t the accurate word. I sizzled.”
“If you want to promise me something, it’s got to be better than giving up smokes.” Annie stuck the cig in her purse.
“I’m sorry, Cupcake, but I can’t accompany you up there.” Derrick pointed to St. Cecelia’s medical towers. “I have terrible anxiety about doctors’ visits. But I’ll wait for you here. No sneaking a cancer stick behind my back.”
“Fine,” Annie said and walked into the lobby of that scary building, St. Cecelia’s Medical Offices, alone.
Derrick was wrong-o bong-o about this suspect interview, thought Annie. Everyone at the front desk couldn’t have been nicer. This upscale Westside Los Angeles doctor’s waiting room had better magazines—up to date People, Vanity Fair and a couple of Derrick’s I Promise books. During the forty-five minutes between signing in and the receptionist calling Annie’s name, she skimmed Derrick Fuller’s first I Promise book.
Now she sat in a small room with a window that overlooked the Pacific Ocean while she waited for Dr. Stern, Derrick’s former dermatologist. She reclined in a cushy chair dressed in a soft gown. God, these gowns were so much nicer than those scratchy paper one-ply towel things they used down the hall at the evil Oby-Gyne office.
The first chapter in Derrick’s second book briefly mentioned his fight with testicular cancer when he was around thirty years old. Weird. She never knew Derrick had cancer. Didn’t realize he’d lost part of his privates in the battle. Maybe that explained his excessive sexual proclivities and need to look perfect. He had surgery, radiation, underwent chemo and survived the whole ordeal.
Dr. Stern walked in the door. He looked a little like Groucho Marx, smiled at Annie and introduced himself. “Very nice to meet you, Ms. Graceland. My name is Dr. Stern. I heard you were referred by our dearly departed friend, Dr. Derrick Fuller.” He shook her hand.
“Yes,” Annie said. “Let’s put our cards on the table, Doctor Stern. I was never a Darling. Were you?”
“No,” Stern laughed. “I paid Derrick a lot of bucks to help me build my practice. He encouraged me to put my money on a little pony called Botox. The rest is history. Business is booming and no one in Los Angeles has eye wrinkles or those squint lines – ‘the elevens' – between their eyebrows. That is, besides you.”
“Oh,” Annie frowned.
“Ah!” Dr. Stern said. “That’s the facial expression that creates the elevens. You must train yourself to never frown. Or, get Botox. We can do that right now, no problem.” He turned and pulled open a drawer filled with syringes.
She caught a glimpse of herself in one of Dr. Stern’s many mirrors, widened her eyes and kept a straight face. She looked like a zombie.
“I assumed that’s the reason for your appointment today.” Dr. Stern turned around and headed toward her forehead with a syringe.
Uh-oh. She’d forgotten that part. “Thanks, but no thanks on the Botox,” Annie said. But, why was she at a dermatologist’s office besides asking the usual question: Did Dr. Stern kill or have a clue as to who else might have killed Derrick Fuller?” She blinked. “Actually, I’m here because…”
“Don’t tell me, I already spotted it. Oh the things we do in our youth,” Dr. Stern replied. He grabbed her forearm, turned it over and looked at her small, no-bigger-than-a-nickel, heart-shaped prison tattoo. “You got this in j
uvie, right?”
Annie looked shocked. Did she look like the type that would break the law? Bending was a completely different issue. “No, that’s…”
“Not a problem,” Dr. Stern said. “We can laser that puppy off. Funny. Just last week I removed the same tattoo from another patient, also referred by Dr. Fuller. Maybe you were in juvie together.”
Annie pulled her arm away from Dr. Stern. “Did you kill Dr. Derrick Fuller or do you know who did?” She asked.
“Oh, my. Is that what landed you in juvie? An accidental homicide. Well, you’re older now, and hopefully a productive member of society,” Dr. Stern said. “The tattoo removal will burn a little. It might take a couple of treatments. It’s a cosmetic procedure and your insurance won’t cover it.” There was a knock on the door.
Another white-coated man stepped into the room and closed the door with his back toward them.
“You can arrange for payment with my assistants up front.” Dr. Stern said.
“Um,” Annie said. She liked her fake prison tat.
“Meet my new intern, Dr. Putter. He’ll be performing the procedure on you today. Take her blood pressure first, Dr. Putter.”
An attractive young woman perched on a bench next to the entrance to St. Cecelia’s Medical Offices and read a book. Derrick reclined, rested his head on her lap and tried to relax. He had no idea why this young woman kept squirming and twitching. That’s when he heard Annie’s screams emanating above him from the Medical Offices.
Annie sat on the sand on Venice Beach close to the water and watched the waves crash.
Derrick hovered next to her.
“Have a seat.” She patted the sand next to her and looked at her tattoo.
“No, I don’t want sand up my tushie,” Derrick said. “Trust me, it’s enormously uncomfortable. I’ll sit on your purse.”
“My purse is a Coach. Sit on my purse and you won’t see the end of today, let alone the After-Life.” She pulled a couple of tissues out of her purse and handed them to Derrick.
He put them under his blue behind and sat down next to her on the sand.
“Dr. Stern’s not your killer. Why didn’t you tell me about your cancer?”
“Why did it take you so long to read one of my books?”
Annie sighed. “You know my story, Derrick.”
“And maybe now you know part of mine,” Derrick said. They looked away from each other.
“I wanted marriage, a family and my own business. Call me selfish, crazy, but I wanted it all.”
“I wanted it all, too. I didn’t ask for the cancer.”
“I didn’t ask for early peri-menopause and a cheating husband.”
“Possibly cheating husband,” Derrick said. “I’ve come to appreciate your… efforts on my behalf. I’d like to offer you something personal. Something that could reward you for your hard work.”
“I just need a new life. And maybe some hope. Hope would be really nice.”
“I’ve got several tubes of hope at St. Cecelia’s Sperm Bank. You can have a tube if they haven’t already been destroyed.”
“What are you talking about?” Annie asked, turned and stared at him.
Power Puffs
Description: Home made granola bars with oats and dried berry bits sprinkled with a tad of cinnamon and protein powder.
Appropriate Occasions: Interviewing suspects. Too much exercise. Returning to the scene of the crime. White coat terror syndrome.
Best Served With: Generous portions of less than perfect thighs and buns.
Eighteen
Baby Blues
“You want a baby,” Derrick said and faced the setting sun. “I’ve got frozen sperm I’m willing to give you. However, after the lawyers read my new will, my seed will be destroyed within forty-eight hours.”
Annie looked shocked. “That’s nice of you to offer. Thoughtful. But maybe Tawny wants to have a baby with your manly popsicles?”
“I don’t think Tawny’s the mothering type. Ages ago I promised a vial of my gold medal swimmers to someone else. But I do believe there’s plenty to go around. Until my new will is read, my offer stands.” Derrick draped his arm around her shoulders.
“I’m single, I’m broke. My life isn’t stable. I’m a mess,” Annie said. “Right now is not the best time for me to be thinking babies.”
“I think you’re lovely,” Derrick said.
She sighed. She and Derrick watched the sun set. Not quite friends, but not complete enemies.
It was late afternoon. Annie was back at the Shrine. Daylight Savings time change had come and gone, and the days stayed lighter later. Today was an official holiday for somebody dead who used to be important. Therefore, in the name of peace and love, the Shrine was opened a little longer than normal.
Annie walked in the front gate and chugged down the path that surrounded the Shrine’s pond. She wore camouflage patterned board shorts, a Concrete Blonde T-shirt, and her hair was tucked under a ball cap. She sported big sunglasses and a backpack.
The truce between her and Derrick broke earlier that morning when she caught him peeking at her through the curtain as she showered. Now he followed her. “Get busy, Sweetie. I’m exhausted. I’ll be napping in yonder rowboat.” He pointed to a boat tethered yards from a small pier. “It’s poetic, don’t you think. It’s where I reclined while I waited for you to conjure me up from just a pinch of my potent cremains.”
“Whatever, dorko.” Annie saw Pimply Monk, who was still pimply and eyeballed her legs as he hand weeded a garden area yards away from her. She planned to elude the monks by entering their property during an off time. Guess that hadn’t happened. She hoped Pimply didn’t recognize her. She walked past him and chanted in a monotone German-Hindu under her breath. Chanting would fit in with the shrine’s regulars and might soothe and distract him. (Why German? For some reason L.A. had tons of tourists from Deutche-land. And Nancy, her Lutheran German mother, taught her a few words. Why Hindu? Could have been fondue, because Annie made it up.) “Einz vie drie, Heinz ketchup, sprechen-zie,” she chanted and passed Pimply without being apprehended. Her legs, however, did feel pinched and fondled. Thanks again to her empathic gift.
The Shrine was still startling beautiful. How many flowers and cedar chips could one place that was technically in the late winter season hold? Did someone, probably Silver Monk, think about how the sun pierced the beginnings of the late afternoon ocean mist and filtered through the tree branches? Why did all the tree branches glimmer with light? It reminded Annie of the aftermath of the big Oconomowoc ice storm back in 1977. The blinding shine reflected off the ice covered tree branches, roads, ponds, lakes, as well as Mrs. Stumpledum’s upside down Pomeranian dog that was found frozen in the icy puddle at the bottom of her driveway.
Memories of Derrick’s memorial service, the night she botched Nonna Maria’s Get Rid of Dead Assholes spell when she unfortunately conjured Derrick’s ghost, bounced through her head with every step. Maybe she was having a bad flashback from some wilder time in her life when she didn’t “Just Say No.” Or maybe the Shrine was a pretty, warmer version of hell frozen over.
Annie looked at the pond and the foliage now, but with purpose. She searched for the perfect spot for her mission. This expedition was for her, not Derrick. It was for her broken heart, tired eyes, sore arms and the overwhelming need to pay her bills and rent. This mission was for her sanity. She strode past a bench next to the large plaque that proclaimed right here was a Ghandi ash.
An older couple sat on the bench. The woman had helmet hair and wore a plum colored velour jumpsuit. The man had a cane and a pair of binocs that he trained on Annie’s behind as she passed them.
Bootsy and Bob Bauerfeld were back at the Shrine, weeks after Derrick’s memorial. Bootsy noticed Bob’s noticing Annie’s shapely behind. She frowned and elbowed him. He jumped. “You said animal watching, Mr. Family Values.”
Bob slumped and trained his binocs back on the pond.
An
nie walked to the spot where Derrick’s memorial plaque was cemented into the ground. That would be a totally sweet place to launch her mission. Maybe she’d even spit on it again. But when she got closer she realized it wouldn’t work, because some twenty something blondie guy crouched over it and wept.
Blondie’s head was in his hands. His long perfect Breck hair shimmered with highlights as it shook across his wide Abercrombie and Fitch model-like shoulders with each sob.
Woos, thought Annie. Most likely another I Promise, loser. She trekked further down the trail and circled the pond ’till she found a spot that could, if she was willing to get a little dirty, work. Since when was a girl from Wisconsin scared of getting dirty? Not her, not now. Oddly, the not-so-perfect spot was directly across the pond from where Derrick’s memorial service was held. It had plenty of foliage and trees, loud ducks and a few swans. No monks. No Derrick. No blondie crying guy.
Annie hopped off the trail. She navigated through scads of fronds and lilies peppered in bird poop in a patch of muddy ground that sloped to the pond. She made her way down the small landing, but slipped. Her legs flew out from underneath her. She landed on her butt, slid a couple of feet down the incline and knocked over a few irritated and loud birds. Two ducks pecked her leg. A swan bit her arm. Annie waved her arms and legs and glared at them. She thought those hateful birds were like cute innocent looking feathered pit bulls.
She pushed herself off her back and swatted the swan. “I respect PETA’s intentions. However, I will happily turn you into a purse,” she said. “And you!” She pointed at one of the vicious ducks. “I would tenderly roast you with a Cointreaux flavored orange sauce and serve you with baby greens and sautéed carrots.” She hollered and pushed them off her. They waddled off, squawking.
The young blond male hottie stood up, and looked up at her from across the pond. He wiped a few tears away and stared at her, confused.
She glared back at him. He looked familiar, but being that she was covered in bird crap and nursing pecked legs, she simply couldn’t concentrate on why beautiful blondie didn’t register on her man-dar.
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