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

  Contents

  Dedication

  Cover

  Cupcakes, Diaries, and Rotten Inquiries

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Diaries' Recipes

  Also by the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Links

  Sneak Peek of Part-time Princess (Ladies-in-Waiting, #1)

  For

  Monica Mason

  Cupcakes, Diaries, and Rotten Inquiries

  (A Romantic, Comedic Annie Graceland Mystery, #6)

  By

  Pamela DuMond

  Cupcakes, Diaries, and Rotten Inquiries

  (A Romantic, Comedic Annie Graceland Mystery, #6)

  Copyright © 2015 Pamela DuMond

  All rights reserved.

  http://www.pameladumond.com

  Cover Design: Michael James Canales

  http://www.mjcimageworks.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is 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. You can contact the author at www.pameladumond.com

  Chapter 1

  Neener-Neener

  Annie

  Dear Diary,

  Allow me to briefly introduce myself, and then we can dive into the dishy details later.

  My name is Annie Rose Graceland. I’m thirty-eight years old, but I regularly use sunscreen, and could totally pass for thirty-six. I hail from Wisconsin, but I’m currently living in L.A. as I try my best to divorce a man I like to call Satan. I’m dating a hot detective named Raphael Campillio, who, cross my fingers, might be a keeper. I adore my cat, and I love my mother, Nancy—even though she drives me crazy—but to be fair, I do believe that falls well within her job description. I’m a normal girl, with a normal-sized figure, and somewhat normal friends. To be honest, there’s really only one tiny thing that’s a little different about me.

  Please don’t repeat or share this with anyone. I’ve known, for quite some time, that I’m a teensy bit psychic. Well, technically, I’m empathic. I can feel other persons’ lusts and desires in my own body. It usually only happens if I’m super stressed. Like that time I suspected my husband was cheating on me. And now I’m getting divorced. Or when my bakery business tanked, and I became a murder suspect. That was when I discovered that I can see and talk to dead people, especially those who have been murdered.

  I’m not going to maul your beautiful pages by getting into a lengthy dissertation on the appalling murder rate in this country. I’m simply going to say that the suckiest part of this whole talking-to-dead-people gig is that they can also see and talk to me, nagging me incessantly to bring their killers to justice so they can pass to the Afterlife. But enough about this detail about my life, Diary—it gets old pretty quickly.

  Here’s what’s really on my mind.

  Do you know, Diary, what happens every November? It’s a pseudo-sadomasochistic type of event. And no, I’m not talking about the obligatory Thanksgiving Day celebration spent with your family where the turkey’s overcooked, a well-intentioned auntie insists you eat cranberry-flavored wobbly stuff plopped out of a can, and your cousins holler at the TV for twelve straight hours watching football. God made Advil and liquor for that kind of headache.

  I’m talking about the phenomena called Neener-Neener-Wri-Mo—where zealous writers willingly strap themselves into chairs for hours while their asses turn numb and Jello-like as they pound out word after endless word in an attempt to complete a novel in a month.

  I am—by trade—a baker, Dear Diary. And the only reason I agreed to participate in this Neener-Neener event is because I am nice, have been accused of being kind—when I’m not cranky—and I like to support my friends.

  My buddy, Grady Swenson—he of the fabulous hair, brilliant mind, oh-so-cute face, and decent farm boy body, (I’d date him, but he bats for the other team) is a talented screenwriter. For whatever reason, he can’t seem to break into what folks in L.A. call “the industry.”

  Grady’s heard through whatever grapevine he’s listening to that “industry types” are looking for “original content” (aka books and/or short-stories) to adapt for film and TV. So, Mr. Final Draft decided he’s going to slam out a novel during Neener, and that it would be nice if his BFFs, Julia and I, supported him in his efforts.

  A little about Julia: Also thirty-eight years old, Julia Devereaux is a public defender in Los Angeles County by day. She wears conservative suits, and moderate heels as she advocates for L.A.’s possibly criminal (innocent until proven guilty) poor, and under-privileged. At night, however, Julia dons her super push up bra, her extra strong Spanx, slithers into an overly form-fitting dress, and trolls the town looking for Mr. Right, or Mr. Right Now. And trust me on this: she’s great at all of her jobs—no matter what the job entails. The girl is determined with a double D.

  So, when Grady asked us to write something along with him during Neener-Neener, Julia replied, “Dude, are you out of your frigging mind? Writers dream about life. I don’t have time to write—I live my life with gusto.”

  “I do believe his name was Gustavo,” I said. “You met him online in a Men-Who-Like-Curvy-Girls chat room and spent one torrid weekend shacked up with him at a Renaissance Faire, in Irwindale, California. You dressed like a slutty gypsy and gnawed on pig’s knuckles that he hand-fed you. I saw the pictures and the images are seared into my brain. I can’t even look at a pork chop anymore without breaking into a sweat.”

  “Let Annie do the Neener-Neener thing,” Julia sniffed. “She doesn’t have much of a life.”

  “I do, too, have a life,” I said. “I have a cat and I’m working very hard at being a baker, and—”

  “You lost your business when you were framed for Dr. Derrick Fuller’s murder,” Julia said. “He was the best-selling author of the famed ‘I Promise You’ self-help book series and practically anointed by Oprah, for God’s sake.”

  “He was an obnoxious asshat who ruined my marriage,” I said, “and continues to haunt me to this day.”

  “I figured neither of you ladies would be immediately sold on NaNoWriMo,” Grady said. “So close your eyes and hold out your hands. I bought us all gifts—very pretty
gifts.”

  So, Dear Diary—we did.

  And that’s how I met you.

  You’re covered in thick, durable, hand-washable vinyl adorned with multi-colored images of cupcakes and you’re adorbs!

  Chat later?

  Xo,

  Annie Rose Graceland

  How Annie's Ghost Talking Saga Began... (Book Trailer)

  Chapter 2

  Dear Finley

  Grady

  Dear Diary,

  If it’s all right with you, I’d like to call you, Finley. So, let me edit this just a bit…

  Dear Finley,

  I bought diaries in the hopes my BFFs, Annie and Julia, would agree to pen a few journal entries in support of me furthering my career as a professional writer.

  A little about me: I’m an out gay man from the Midwest, who lives a rather quiet, introspective life. I prefer books and movies to partying and parades. I’m in a monogamous relationship with my lovely boyfriend, Liam, who I met during one of Annie’s ghost and murder solving debacles. Oops, scratch that. She swore me to secrecy regarding her psychic abilities—so I’d prefer if you kept that ghost and murder thing between you and me.

  I moved to Los Angeles in the hopes of becoming a screenwriter. For the past few years, I almost sold a spec script five times before being rejected at the eleventh hour. Now, I’m realizing, much to my dismay that I’m just one of a herd of wannabe screenwriters, pecking away at their laptops every day at any given coffee shop across the second biggest city in America.

  I’ve decided I’ll happily settle for being a novelist, should I complete a commercial property (aka Novel,) that could be shopped and optioned for film and/or TV.

  Oh, Finley. I wish the writing bug had never bitten me. I was raised in a small town in Iowa, which by no means precludes a love of all things literary. After all, the Iowa Writer’s Workshop is internationally acclaimed. As a child, I lived half my life at the library. I not only love novels and prose, I’ve read every book on screenwriting that has ever been written. And I have posters of every Steven Soderbergh movie in my bedroom back at my mom’s home.

  Thank you for listening Finley. You are a kind soul. And a wonderful sounding board for my National Writing Month endeavor. I am so grateful we are getting to know each other.

  Best,

  Your new friend,

  Grady Swenson

  Chapter 3

  Whatever

  Julia

  Dear Diary,

  Whatever.

  I have to write boring lawyer stuff all day long and defend some folks that deserve to be defended, and other folks who I know are guilty from the get-go, but hey, it’s America, and they still have a right to a free defense.

  At night, I edit my dating profile on Plenty-Of-fish, J-Date, Christian Singles, Tender, E-Harmony, Zoosk, and Match.com. I do squats, push-ups, and a few abdominal crunches. I get dressed up, put on a little make-up, go out, and meet someone for a date.

  It might be a simple coffee get together that could turn into a weekend affair, or it might be ten minutes of “yeah, this is going nowhere quickly.” Then I call my friends, Annie and Grady, and we meet up for burgers and laugh about whatever happened during our day. ’Cause that’s how we roll, you know?

  As much as I’d love to support my buddy, what was Grady thinking? I don’t have time to write in a freaking diary? Sorry, no harm or foul meant to you, sweets.

  Catch you later,

  Julia Devereux

  SWF. Looking for: DM, SM, Age: 30-50. Race: All. Religion: No preference. No smokers please! Check out my profile at julialovesromance.rom Serious inquiries only. Looking forward to hearing from you.

  Chapter 4

  Feeling Full

  Dr. Derrick

  My Dearest Diary,

  I received your missive in my ‘psychic’ e-mail box (which resides somewhere in my energy field, apparently now that I’ve died, and still haven’t passed to the Afterlife) most likely due to the mishandling of my situation by the reluctant slacker, wannabe psychic, Annie Graceland.

  Yes, Annie discovered who murdered me, and brought my killer to justice. But I also believe she must have done something terribly wrong, as I still haven’t passed to the Afterlife. So, instead of enjoying the heavenly fruits of my earthly labors, I pass along the sorry streets of Los Angeles, California where I rub up against the dirty, downtrodden, and ordinary masses.

  Disgusting. Just, downright disgusting.

  To make matters worse, I no longer have my mansion, my trophy wife has moved on with her life, I can’t take dips in my infinity pool, nor can I indulge in any of the culinary delights that this squalid city offers.

  Therefore, Dearest Diary, while I appreciate your interest in an interview of sorts, I would prefer that you contact my most recent manager, Madison Morgan, instead of reaching out to me directly…

  Oh right, you can’t do that, because I’m officially deceased.

  Sigh.

  The ugly reality, Diary, is that no one tells you before you die that someday, after all the legal fighting is over regarding who inherits what—your estate might be represented—but you will not. Reason being?

  You’re dead. And once you’re dead? Your estate has rights, but you, as a person—a soul—do not. I’ve recently discovered this grossly unfair and negligent loophole in the legal system. But try changing the law once you’ve been officially declared dead.

  I know this whole ‘Dear Diary Campaign’ is an effort to support Annie Graceland’s overly earnest friend, Grady Swenson, in his desire to write something that is the slightest bit commercial. But, you must remember that when I was still alive—which wasn’t all that long ago—I was a beloved, best-selling, and revered self-help author, popular seminar leader, and internationally acclaimed public speaker.

  So perhaps, Dear Diary, we can turn the tables a bit—and I can actually help you.

  I suggest we take the dilemmas and questions that arise from this pathetic NaNoWriMo Event, and spin them into something that could benefit millions of people that watch shows like Dr. Phil, Dr. Oz, The Duck Brothers, and perhaps even the viewers of Kathie Lee and Hoda.

  It’s obvious to me, from the lack of decent talk shows, as well as reality show programming, that my presence is sorely missed. Feeling Full with Dr. Fuller would have been a phenomenal addition to any TV network’s roster and a ratings blockbuster.

  Sincerely,

  Dr. Derrick Fuller, Ph.D.

  Chapter 5

  King Cadillac

  Annie

  Dear Diary,

  I’ve been voluntarily trapped inside my saggy, overpriced, pathetic studio apartment in Venice, California, all freaking day, as I’m determined to perfect a new recipe. While Julia teases me about losing my bakery business, and going to work at Mort Feinberg’s Deli in the back back kitchen—she’s actually spot on.

  My boutique bakery business took a nosedive when Dr. Derrick Fuller was killed with a poisoned Piccolino’s Bakery dark chocolate cupcake. Yes, I baked the cupcake, but I wasn’t the one who injected it with cyanide, and I didn’t kill the colossal jerk. Even though, as Derrick continues to haunt me, I really wish I had.

  As much as I adore Mr. Feinberg and his deli, I do want my own bakery business again some day. Meanwhile, I’m working my ample behind off in the deli’s back back kitchen and hoping enough time passes that people forget that pompous, know-it-all windbag, Derrick Fuller, and that I can get on with my life.

  Back to the new recipe: it’s a Thanksgiving-inspired cupcake with organic pumpkin puree and spices. Whee! I whipped up a large bowl of batter and poured that mixture into the cupcake tins when my twenty-pound, long-haired, Himalayan-mix cat—Theodore von Pumpernickel—decided to knock over a glass of water on the coffee table to get my attention.

  After I screamed bloody murder at him in a kind and gentle fashion, I raced five feet to my table and rescued my laptop. I frantically dabbed the drops of water off my computer with the hem of
my T-shirt and then typed in my password to make sure it still worked. Everything opened up on the screen like clockwork. Phew! I logged onto my Internet connection and that worked as well. I totally skated over this near debacle! After all that stress, I needed a much-deserved break, so I clicked onto Facebook.

  I watched two ridiculously cute cat videos, and acknowledged but ignored the ad for the dating service that informed me Fireman Bob had viewed my profile and wanted to meet me. (What profile?) A friend’s relationship status had changed to “It’s Complicated” which made me want to direct message her to find out what the heck happened. But I knew that would turn into an hour chat and resisted because I didn’t have the time. I could smell the cinnamon and nutmeg wafting through the air, beckoning me back to the kitchen.

  I was signing out when a new Friend Request lit up on my page. I clicked on it. Oh God, Diary. I was totally not prepared for this.

  “Mack McManus wants to be your friend.”

  “You have one mutual friend—Julia Devereux.

  Mack ‘The Man’ McManus lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. He has 665 friends. Ask him about where he went to High School. Ask him about where he went to College. Mack likes automobiles, Cadillacs, The Walking Dead, The Grateful Dead, Six-feet-Under, Pet Sematary, The Terminator, and taxidermy.”