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

  “Gah! Let me go back to being a baker, Pinky Mussolini,” Annie said. “I beg you!”

  “Gah! Be my guest, Annie Lateland,” Pinky said.

  *****

  Twenty minutes later I drove the shortcut back from Beverly Hills because Annie’s ancient car was on the fritz and in the shop.

  “Pinky Stein’s a pain in my ass,” Annie said.

  “You just need to calm down. Besides, I think she’s fascinating.”

  “So are colonoscopies but I don’t want to be exposed to one every day.”

  We travelled past the sleek high-rises in Century City, turned onto Pico, and made a left on Motor in front of Fox Studios. We passed the long, green-grass, tree-lined Rancho Park with too many baseball diamonds and clubhouses to count.

  “Thanks for backing me up on this,” Annie said. “I hope to hell my car repairs are going to be cheap. I took L.A.’s super fine public transportation to work this morning. My regular twenty-minute drive ended up being a two and 1/2 hour bus commute. I sat next to a guy who snored the entire time and twitched. He had blood on his T-shirt and his jeans. When he mumbled, ‘Who’s talking now? I’ve got the knife, Mo-Fo!’ I got a little scared and feared he was a gang-banger, or a serial killer.”

  “Why didn’t you change seats?”

  “Do I look like a pole dancer? Nothing else was available, dude.”

  “Understandable.” I nodded. “Who wants to hang onto one of those poles for an hour. Lucky for you, he was an exhausted serial killer. By the way, I’m happy to help, you know. That’s what friends do. You know I hate to be the bearer of obvious tidings—”

  “Have at it.” Annie waved a hand at me. “Everyone else does.”

  “Have you thought that maybe it’s time you got a newer car?”

  “Newer?” she asked. “Newer? Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know? I can’t afford a used car—okay, okay—fine, Mack!” in air quotes, she said. “A previously owned vehicle!”

  I tried to quench my excitement as I adjusted the rearview mirror, peered into the back of my car and saw nothing but my workout duffle. “Mack’s in the back seat, isn’t he?”

  “I’m sorry!” Annie said. “ Yes. But, you don’t need to worry. It’s not like he leaves a dead residue or anything. Okay—maybe just a hint of that ‘new car smell’ air freshener the dealerships spray into the carpet of previously owned vehicles.”

  “It’s fine.” I lifted my hand casually and waved casually into the rearview. “Hey, Mack. Glad we could help you out today.”

  “He says he appreciates it, Fraidy,” Annie frowned, swiveled her head and stared behind her. “Don’t call him that—his name is Grady. No, he’s not scared of ghosts—he’s actually kind of intrigued by the whole thing. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Mack.”

  *****

  A few minutes later I slowed down and eyeballed the apartments on Venice Boulevard, looking for the right address. “I think that green and white one is it,” I said.

  “Doesn’t look awful,” Annie said. “Park, please.”

  “I haven’t found a space yet.” I slowed down when someone slammed on his or her horn behind me, and Annie almost hit the roof.

  She stuck her head out of the passenger window and shook her fist. “Chill out, buddy!”

  “For God’s sakes, pull your head inside,” I said. “What if someone shoots you?”

  “Turn right, here!” She pointed to the next intersection. “Turn! The ad said there was plenty of street parking.”

  “I need to signal, first, okay? Calm down!”

  I don’t know, Finley. It seems like everyone, except for me, is on high alert these days. You know what? I might just check out the library. I can only imagine whom I might meet there.

  Thanks for your time,

  Grady

  Chapter 23

  The Devil Wears Flada

  Mack

  Dear Diary,

  Why do I have to pretend to write “Dear Diary” every time I get a chance to tell my side of the story? What other sicko game is Annie Graceland playing with me? But she’s insisted several times now, and throws her hands up in the air and yells at Mack when I don’t do things her way. Because she’s “done this whole investigating thing before with other ghosts.” And I need to “just trust her” and her bonehead friends. God, please let me pass. In the meantime, fine! “Dear Diary,” it is!

  We circled the block for ten, long, stressful minutes before Grady finally found parking.

  “Come on! I know you can make this.” Annie stood in front and waved him toward her as he nervously pulled as close to the car in front of him to avoid blocking someone’s driveway, which was an automatic tow in this neighborhood. We trotted three blocks to the apartment building, and peered up at the address to make sure we were in the right spot.

  This place looked so familiar… probably because it was your typical, sixty-year-old, Venice apartment complex. The building was a two-story long rectangle slapped with off-white stucco and ugly as sin on the outside. Dead fronds hung from the single tall, anorexic palm tree plopped in front on the yellowed, sickly-looking lawn. The numbers on the building appeared like they were manufactured in the early sixties and the last digit tilted sideways—like it was ready to just call it a day, jump, and commit suicide on the ground below.

  “We’re late,” Annie looked at her phone. “Maybe Tiffany was already here and left. I told you to just park in the lot at the 7-11.”

  “And risk getting towed?” Grady shook his head. “Sorry, I love you, but that option wasn’t worth the extra four hundred bucks.”

  When Tiffany Tominski rounded the corner dressed in low clacky heels and a form fitting pants suit. My former breath caught in my former throat. “It’s her,” I said. “I haven’t seen Tiffany in years, but, I’d recognize the Devil wears Flada any day.”

  “Prada,” Annie said.

  “No,” I said. “Flada: a ginormous and profitable Chinese clothing manufacturer that rips off all the designer labels. Tiffany’s definitely a Flada kind-of-gal.”

  Tiffany walked straight up to Annie and Grady and stuck out her hand. “You must be Annie Graceland and Grady Swenson.”

  “Yes.” Annie shook her hand. Grady extended his but Tiffany had already turned and was marching down the corridor between the apartment buildings.

  “You married?” She asked.

  “Um, no,” Grady said. “Just best friends.”

  “Not a problem.” She swiveled her head and winked at them. “I rent to all sorts of folks, with all sorts of arrangements, if you know what I mean. Just keep it legal, clean, and out of the newspapers. And no dungeons on my properties.”

  “Dungeons?” Annie asked.

  “Shut up. You don’t want to know,” Grady hissed.

  Tiffany pointed to a staircase and started climbing it. “You’re here to see #5, yes? The spacious, newly renovated one bedroom?”

  “Um,” Annie said.

  “Yes!” Grady took her arm and they followed Tiffany up the stairs.

  I sprang forward, ahead of them. Something about this place called to me. Something was so familiar, and at the same time, felt changed. Like when you wake from one of those very lucid dreams and can’t tell the difference between your dream and real life for a few moments. Until you have to pee and then you’re really awake—well, usually.

  Tiffany wriggled her key in the lock when my hand fell on top of hers on the doorknob. She shuddered for a second and then recovered nicely. “Phew! Did you feel that autumn breeze?” she asked.

  “No,” Annie said, just steps behind her.

  Grady squinted, nodded in Mack’s general direction and gave me a subtle wave. “Absolutely, Ms. Tominski. Weather is finally arriving in So-Cal just in time for Thanksgiving.”

  “Don’t get me started on Thanksgiving.” Tiffany flung the door open and walked inside. Annie and Grady followed on her footsteps.

  I squeezed around them. There was a faint smell o
f ‘new car’ scent in the air. At first it made me curious, and then a little nauseous as I realized this wasn’t emanating from me. I stood on the new, cheap, taupe shag carpeting in the freshly painted white living room, gagged and clamped a hand over my mouth.

  Annie noticed. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. I feel kind of weird here. Like there’s something I should remember, but I don’t.”

  “Nothing’s wrong, thank you for asking,” Tiffany said. “Typical holiday. There’s just so much to do. When were you looking to move in?”

  “December 1st,” Grady said. “Just a week or so from now. We’re already packing.”

  “This unit is going to rent quickly. I’m showing it to three other people after you, today. It has a newish fridge, new carpeting, and a new dishwasher.” Tiffany gestured. “Walk around the place. Get a feel for it. The prior tenant was here for nearly thirty years. She loved it.”

  Annie looked around the place suspiciously. “Why did she leave? Did she die? Because by law, you need to disclose that kind of stuff, you know.”

  “Good God, no. She’s living the high life at Helping Hands Assisted Living facility—which I prefer to call a spa. She’s served three warm meals a day in the dining room, her apartment is cleaned once a week, and she has more activities on her itinerary than a cruise ship.”

  “Sounds lovely,” Grady said.

  “I’ll be there in forty years. I hope the men are still living, because it seems like all the men die before the women do. My former tenant even confirmed that. She said there are four women to every man at her new digs. She’s such a dear.”

  Annie moved around the apartment, her eyes flitting everywhere, looking for some kind of clue. She peered inside the bedroom. “Bars on the windows?”

  “Been up there for forty years,” Tiffany said. “Neighborhood’s gotten a lot better in four decades, but one can never be too safe. Besides if you look in that direction…” She pointed through the slats, “…you can see the ocean view.”

  Annie squinted. “You mean the view of a tire shop.”

  “No, no. Look right there,” Tiffany pointed. “Whitecaps cresting on top of the gorgeous Pacific Ocean waters.”

  Grady squinted. “I think I see it.”

  “Those are whitewall tires,” Annie said, “at the tire shop.”

  “On a Lincoln Towncar. A beaut. What a shame that feature was discontinued in 2001,” I said. “I swear I’ve been here before, Annie. But I can’t remember where or when. Maybe it’s just a mental fog because I’m recently departed. But perhaps there’s something here, in this very apartment that’s drawing Mack. An essence. A feeling. A hint. Quite possibly a clue about my murder.”

  I glared at Tiffany. The material making up her Flada suit was thinly woven and I could practically see her undergarments. Like I was the one to sell her a lemon. Hah! I do believe the laugh was on her. “Look,” I said. “I don’t trust Tiffany as far as I can throw her.”

  “A little more information, please?” Annie asked.

  “Coin laundry’s in the building,” Tiffany said. “Two washers. Two driers. Lock on the door.”

  “Very good,” Annie said. “Grady loves to do laundry.”

  “I do?” he asked.

  “Distract her,” Annie mouthed.

  “Who doesn’t love clean clothes!’ He nervously scratched his temple. “So… Ms. Tominski—I detect a hint of a Midwestern accent. I’m originally from Iowa. Where do you hail from?”

  “Midwesterners tend to be salt of the earth kind of folks. The woman who used to live here was originally from Wisconsin,” she said. “I am too.”

  “Wow!” Grady said. “What a coincidence! So is Annie.”

  Tiffany’s phone buzzed and she pulled it from her purse, squinted at it, and texted. “Next couple is here to see the place. I told them to come on up. I’m sure you don’t mind—you were a bit late for your appointment, after all.”

  “We had trouble parking,” Grady said.

  “You could have just parked behind the garages in the back like I do,” Tiffany said.

  Annie moved into the kitchen, opening cabinets and pantries as she peered inside.

  “But I wouldn’t want to block your tenants,” Grady said.

  “This is a low-maintenance building,” she said. “Someone has a problem with someone else, they just knock on their door and talk to them about it.”

  “That sounds super friendly,” Grady said. “Just like the Midwest.”

  Annie closed her eyes and sniffed the air like a bloodhound.

  “Mack smells it too!” I said. “It’s my signature fragrance, but it’s not coming from me.”

  A multi-pierced young couple walked inside the apartment. “Number five?” The pierced guy asked.

  Tiffany walked toward them with a big smile on her face. “Why yes,” she said. “You must be Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Let me show you around the place. It’s spacious. Has tons of cabinets and closet space.”

  “The only deal-breaker for me is the street parking,” Mrs. Smith said. “I noticed you had several garages in the back, as well as a few designated parking pads.”

  “Good eye,” Tiffany said. “I can’t advertise the parking spot yet. But, if all goes according to plan, I should have one single garage available sometime soon. Of course, that will be an extra hundred dollars a month.”

  Annie stared at the fridge, took out her phone and took a couple of pictures. Then furtively pulled a few kitchen magnets off the Kenmore and slid them into her purse.

  “What?” Grady mouthed.

  “What?” I asked.

  Annie made her way into the living room. “Lovely space.” She shook Tiffany’s hand. “We’ll be getting back to you, shortly. Thank you for your time.”

  “You too. Don’t forget—this place will go in seconds.” She snapped her fingers.

  “I know,” Annie said. “The ocean view units always do. Say—did you hear about that guy from Wisconsin who was in town for the used car convention and got murdered just a few miles from here?”

  Tiffany’s breath caught and her cheeks popped bright red like she’d overdone it on the dime store blush. “No. He probably brought a criminal element with him. I don’t trust those wheeler-dealer salesmen types. One burned me a long time ago and I steer clear of them. Besides, I only buy new cars now. I love the super long warranties.”

  “Right.” I sniffed. “And all the miles on all the Previously Owned Vehicles I sold were gently driven.” I held my head high, like the #2 WEPOC prince that I was, and strode out of the apartment.

  *****

  I jogged down the stairs, Grady and Annie on my heels, as we made our way back to his car. The strange thing, Dear Diary, is that, except for the “wheeler-dealer” comment, Tiffany didn’t seem all that mean anymore. She appeared to be your average, middle-aged chick that was trying to make an honest living.

  “Maybe Mack’s been wrong about Tiffany all these years?” I asked. “Perhaps I painted her as a heartless shrew, when she’s simply an overly-anxious, cost-cutting woman who means well?”

  “Do you want to know what that new car smell is?” Annie asked.

  “Dying,” Grady said.

  “Please don’t say those words,” Annie said.

  “Taking them back,” Grady said.

  “Been there, done that,” I said. “Yes, please.”

  She reached in her purse, pulled out a kitchen magnet, and held it in front of us. “Take a sniff and a look at this,” she said. “And tell me what you think.”

  Both Grady and I sniffed and squinted, but he beat me to the punch. “I think it says, “Made in Japan,” he said. “Is that our clue? Did someone with a Japanese made car run over Mack? Oh, God, there are so many Prius drivers in L.A.’s Westside. How are we going to narrow this down? We are so doomed.”

  “Oops, sorry.” Annie flipped the magnet over, and waved it—long and slow in front of us.

  “Holy crap,” Grady said.
“Much better. That is the mother of all refrigerator magnet clues.”

  “Yup,” Annie said. “Couldn’t have found it without Mack’s help.”

  “Stop waving it around,” I clutched my forehead and blinked. “Mack’s still a little dizzy and I wouldn’t want to upchuck all over you.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” Annie said. “But now that you’re dead that’s not going to happen.” She stopped swirling it and held it still right in front of my eyeballs.

  I zeroed in on it, clutched my chest in shock, and I reeled.

  Because the words on the magnet read, “WEPOC: The #1 Site for Previously Owned Vehicles.”

  Yowsa, Diary!

  Must go spit-polish what’s left of my brain and remember how I know that place.

  Mack

  Chapter 24

  A Mom’s Gotta Do

  Nancy

  Dear Diary,

  I could barely contain my excitement as I packed my bags to visit my only daughter, Annie Graceland-ixnay-the-Piccolino, in Lost Angeles, California.

  I printed out a list from the TSA on things I shouldn’t pack in my suitcase or carryon bags. My friend, Dot Fettleman, said I should wear comfy shoes that I can slip on and off in order to go through airport security, but definitely wear socks so my feet don’t freeze on the eight-hour flight with one stop over from Milwaukee to LAX.

  I’ve been asking Annie to come back home and visit me for Thanksgiving ever since she married—that man. But she hasn’t. Now she’s divorcing him and she’s broke, because he killed her business and as far as I’m concerned, almost killed her as well. So I am making the grand schlep out to L.A. to visit Annie and shore up her sanity as well as mine.

  Not to bore you, and please, give a mother a tiny break as I share a pinch about that man.