1 Cupcakes, Lies, and Dead Guys Read online

  “No company, detective. Come on in.” She covered her bra with her hands. Glared at Derrick on the couch. Wondered if Febreze Fabric Refresher made Dead-eze. She’d saturate her couch with it. “I’m uh, doing laundry. Sometimes when stains don’t come out, I get stressed and give myself a pep talk. Sorry for the casual attire, but maybe you need to call me before you stop by.”

  He nodded his head. “Where are the washer and dryer in this unit?”

  “Hand laundry. I’m doing the delicates today.”

  “He doesn’t look delicate to me, Cupcake,” Derrick said, and checked out Rafe like he was a fine filet mignon covered in cellophane with a bar code on his wrapper.

  Annie flipped Derrick her middle finger behind her back.

  “Okay,” Rafe said.

  Teddy ran out of the bathroom with the toilet paper clenched in his mouth. The paper trailed from the bathroom to the living room. He dove under the couch and howled.

  “Cats are intuitive. Sensitive. Pick up on the moment,” Annie said.

  “He’s upset about the stains, too?” Rafe asked.

  Derrick giggled.

  Annie frowned. “Give me a minute.” She turned and strode back into her bathroom.

  Rafe stepped inside her apartment. “Take two.” He shook his head and shut the door. “I’m up for a challenge.”

  Rafe sat in a deck chair on her patio. The sun was setting and with the sun went the warmth. It could be quite chilly by the beach.

  Annie lit the logs in her fire pit. “Can I get you something? Brownie? Sorbet? Pie? Potpie? Like the vegetable-chicken kind, not…. Would you like, um, water, a mimosa, a Scotch, glass of wine, a beer, a …”

  “How about you sit down and relax for a second?” Rafe said.

  “After I stoke the fire. I can’t imagine why you’re back here. You already know everything.”

  “Almost.” Rafe tried not to stare at her bent forward, stoking the fire.

  Derrick knelt next to Rafe and gazed into his eyes. “I’m a master of studying people. I’m only three credits short of being a professional Peepologist,” he said to Annie. “I’d say this detective guy is not only hot on the outside, but also fiery and studly in the very depths of his soul. But he longs to break free of his shackles, release his inner demons and open his heart. Like one of the five hundred butterflies in cardboard boxes released after the vows at a Brentwood wedding. God knows I attended more than my share of those.”

  “How can I help you, Detective?” Annie asked.

  “I talked to Mike Piccolino, your estranged husband,” Rafe said.

  “Be free, butterfly. Be free.” Derrick gently stroked Rafe’s cheek.

  Rafe grimaced for a second and his jaw muscle twitched.

  “For God’s sakes, don’t touch him,” Annie said.

  “Excuse me?” Rafe replied and looked surprised.

  Annie squirmed. “I didn’t mean you. I meant… me. I can’t really comment on Mike, you know, touch on that subject, because technically we’re still married.”

  “Fair enough. Check out that chair.” Rafe pointed to the chair next to him. “Looks comfortable. Park it.” He patted the chair’s cushion.

  “Okay.” Annie sat down. “I can sit for about one minute and twenty seconds.”

  “I’ll make it quick.”

  Derrick stared into Rafe’s eyes. “No, no. This isn’t the kind of guy who does quickies, Annie. This guy would last for hours, days.”

  “Pronto. Muy bien!” Annie said, ignored Derrick and smiled at Rafe.

  “I talked to Mike. He says he’s confused as to why you’re separated. That he still has feelings for you and doesn’t understand why you two aren’t talking.”

  “Hang on,” Annie said to Rafe, walked back toward her apartment, grabbed Derrick’s arm, dragged him with her and murmured under her breath. “Move it, dirtbag.”

  “Excuse me?” Rafe asked.

  She gave Rafe a big smile. “Un momento, por favor.”

  Annie slammed Derrick against her tall kitchen cabinets. How she did that must have been the power of suggestion. “Derrick, shut your big buggy mouth and let me talk to this detective,” she said and grabbed her manila envelope from the counter. “Sit. Stay. Do not step one dead foot on my patio.”

  His hands flew into the air in the ‘Whatever’ position. “Ooh. Arrest me,” he said.

  Annie walked back through her tangerine kitchen door and handed Rafe the envelope with the Mike-Derrick photos she received on Valentine’s Day. “Remember I told you about Valentine’s Day?”

  Rafe nodded. He opened the envelope, pulled out the pictures and looked at them. His eyebrows wiggled a bit, and he squinted.

  “This was my present. Delivered to me at my doctor’s office during my appointment.” She looked at him. “Mike called me later. Said they were photo-shopped.”

  “I need to take these.”

  “No. I’m putting them in my Christmas update letter.”

  “It’s February.”

  “My New Year’s resolution was to get organized.”

  “I’ll have them back to you in plenty of time.” He held onto them.

  “Fine. I have copies.”

  “How’s your ankle?”

  “Much better. Thanks for the help.”

  “Serve and protect. I saw you at the memorial service for Fuller. You didn’t stick around. Heard you showed back up around midnight and gave the monks hell. Why?”

  “Maybe they deserved it.”

  “These pictures look like Dr. Derrick Fuller deserved it. These aren’t really in your best interest.”

  “Yeah. But I didn’t do anything to that big blue dork.”

  “Blue dork?”

  Annie got up and walked back to her kitchen door. “Feel free to see yourself out.” She pointed to the gate in her patio that led to the alley. She walked through her door, closed it and locked it from the inside.

  Detective Rafe pushed himself up from the chair. “I’m coming back, you know.” He stared at her tangerine back door, thinking she might change her mind, come back out and offer him a cookie. Or a glimpse of another piece of lingerie. But the door didn’t budge. He reminded himself of Rule # 2: Never be attracted to a suspect. Rule # 3: If you were attracted to a suspect, don’t be an idiot and act on it. Rafe left through the very bland-colored back gate.

  Back inside her apartment Annie collapsed on her couch. “Hey, Derrick. Thanks for understanding that I needed to talk to Detective Rafe without you.”

  No response.

  She looked around, curious. “I appreciate that you’re finally respecting my boundaries. Derrick?”

  Silence.

  Had Mr. Happy Pants magically passed to the After-Life without her finding his killer? No problemo. As long as we have our rules outlined, our boundaries in order, she thought. Buenas noches, El Diablo Azul.

  Later that night after two brownies, a couple of glasses of wine, two episodes of Law & Order, and a Xanax, Annie still couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned and clutched a rolling pin and a laminated pocket-sized pic of Jesus pre-crucifixion, when he was still cute and available. Her mom had given her the Jesus picture when she discovered that she and Julia had given each other prison tats as a dare to attempt Method acting. That was the end of high school freshman year drama class, as well as Annie’s acting career. To fill the void and redeem her soul, Mom signed her up for Bible Study at church. Which is where she met Stevie Hufnagel, her pot-head boyfriend.

  She ruminated why Mike told Rafe that he didn’t know the reasons that they were separated. Mike was an idiot. Why couldn’t she just tell him that, and be over the shock and the heartbreak? Why, when it came to Mike Piccolino, did all the good words just hop on a plane and leave her with stupid words like “Uh,” “Huh,” and, “Oh”? Her phone rang. She had installed an extension next to her couch, fumbled, and picked up. “Huh?”

  “Annie, it’s Pa. I’m watching the X-Files.”

  She rubbed her
head and sat up. “What’s up?”

  “More dream messages from your grandmother. Something about someone haunting her in purgatory.”

  “Pa, half the Catholic Church doesn’t believe in purgatory anymore.”

  “You want to tell your grandmother that, or should I?”

  Good point, she thought.

  “Hang on, let me check my notes.”

  Annie heard paper rustling and Pa grumbled on the other end of the line. “His name is Da Rick. Sounds like one of those white rapper idiots. But she said he was blue. I hate that piece of crap white rap blues music. Nonna said Da Rick’s making her life in purgatory a living hell. And purgatory’s not supposed to be hell.”

  Great. That’s where Derrick was.

  “Nonna Maria told me to tell you to take care of it. Said that you’ve got the family’s psychic gift…”

  “Curse,” Annie said and grimaced. “Tell Nonna Maria I’ll handle it. Love you, bye.”

  Now she was wide-awake and livid. Talk about balls—Derrick haunting her beloved grandmother. The audacity. The entitlement. If he wasn't already been dead, she’d kill him. It would be a crime of passion. Maybe if she were lucky, Detective Rafe Caliente, oops, Campillio, would arrest and frisk her thoroughly before she landed in the pokey. That might have been fun.

  She walked to her kitchen, opened a drawer, pulled out a straw and sucked on it. Paced the length of her living room until her ankle hurt. She picked up the phone and speed dialed. “Girlfriend power, Julia. Tomorrow seven p.m., Big Books on the Promenade, Self Help section.” She heard mumbling on the other end of the line. “For God’s sakes, yes, I’ll help you pick up guys.” More mumbling. “No, I will not dress slutty. That’s your gig.”

  She strode back to the bathroom and stared into the mirror, her face three inches from its surface. This time she wasn’t looking for wrinkles or sun damage or bouncy boobs. She was looking for justice. As well as one incredibly irritating, hyper-bi-sexual, narcissistic, blue ghost.

  “Bring it on, dick. Bring. It. On.”

  Tata Pancakes

  Description: Light as air pancakes prepared from scratch. Made fresh with sweet buttermilk. Top with a dollop of fresh fruit compote. Note: serve with mimosas to increase your courage or toast your resilience. If champagne is out of your budget, feel free to spike your calcium fortified orange juice with vodka. Share with family and friends! (Alcohol only for those of legal age.)

  Appropriate Occasions: When preparing for or recovering from your mammogram. (First, second, tenth or thirtieth. All are tortuous, both physically and emotionally.)

  Best Served With: Grace. Dignity. Okay. Screw the grace and dignity and go directly to “This sucks, but I have to do it.”

  Twelve

  Usual Suspects

  It was nighttime. Hard to tell because the mecca was completely lit up. Annie looked around the inside of the Big Bookstore and all the little hairs on her arms stood up. It wasn’t the Sistine Chapel, but for her, a darn close relative. Books were everywhere. Floor to ceiling. Stacks and stacks on what appeared to be hundreds of tables and bookshelves. Scads of people hung out here. Plopped in chairs, at tables, seated on the ground, most absorbed in a book or a magazine. Some were here for a good read. Others wanted to escape the loneliness of their lives or were getting over a breakup, or a breakdown. Some people might actually buy a book and take it home with them. Annie closed her eyes, breathed it all in and smiled. The ambience was classic, just like Chanel #5. This was heaven. Blue Derrick couldn’t triumph in heaven could he?

  She cruised the Self-Help Section. When she spotted them and gasped. Oh my God, there they were, plain as the mole on her Aunt Susan’s cheek. Dozens of books with eleven different subtitles in the I Promise series, authored by Derrick Fuller. I Promise: You’ll Lose Weight! I Promise: You’ll Be Healthy Again! Annie gagged. She immediately felt better when she thought of another possible title: “I Promise: Your Head Is So Far Up Your Fat Lonely Poor ass That You’re Actually Considering Buying This Bullshit.”

  An additional five other books by Fuller had different titles and covered different subjects. His books filled an entire shelf and a half. As an author, Derrick hadn’t just made it big, he’d made it huge. Unfortunately, in Annie’s mind he’d also made her estranged husband.

  Her eyes narrowed. This guy messed with her, her husband, her marriage and her hopes and dreams. But, no one messed with her grandmother.

  She scooped up about twenty of Derrick’s books and carried them off, wobbling under their height, toward the government policy section located in a corner in the darkest closet like section of the store.

  “What are you doing?” Derrick asked as his head popped out of a bookshelf.

  “Oh, surprise, it’s you again. The most irritating ghost in the world,” Annie said as she pulled the boring government policy books through Derrick’s dead spirit head.

  “Whatever you’re doing is not, not…neighborly.”

  “Neighborly this.” She shoved his books into the back of the shelf, and then replaced the government books through his open surprised mouth.

  Julia tapped her on the shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair disheveled, she was braless and her pink sparkly lip gloss was smudged beneath her lower lip. She looked concerned. “Is this what you needed legal advice on? Yes, you’re doing something not quite legal. Did you see the security guard on the first floor? I ran into him about two hours ago, when I was shopping. He’s six foot two inches tall, obviously works out. Biceps begged to be ripped out of his uniform, licked, and no ring on the wedding finger.”

  “Julia, I’ve told you a thousand times to wait at least two hours between meeting a complete stranger and making out with him.” Annie walked back to Self-Help, Julia on her heels.

  “Oh, you’re so Midwestern traditional,” Julia said.

  “Whatever,” Annie said. “My grandmother and I are being stalked by a guy. He’s persistent, a jerk and wants me to help find who killed him. He’s tall and blue.”

  “Blue?”

  “Blue,” Annie replied. She grabbed another two armfuls of Derrick’s books and headed toward the Travel Section.

  Julia frowned and followed her. “I knew it, you shouldn’t have moved to Crackville. We’ll go to the cops. We’ll get a restraining order and… Wait a minute. Your grandmother’s been dead for like eight years.” Julia looked confused.

  “Good memory. I like that in a lawyer.” She stuck a big pile of Derrick books behind the Iran and Iraq on $25 a day! books.

  Derrick poked his head out of the middle of the pretty Persian Gulf waters on the cover of the travel book. “You’re messing with me. Ooh, do it again, it hurts so good.”

  Annie picked up an Iran/Iraq travel book and threw it to the ground.

  Julia looked freaked. “Sweetie, I hate what’s happened over there too. But taking it out on a book? Is it the stress? Do we need to go to counseling?”

  “Do you need to go to counseling?” Annie turned and shot Julia laser eyes. Her stomach rumbled, but she had watched Saving Private Ryan multiple times. She was on a mission and had one last trip in her, dammit, before she collapsed like poor Tom Hanks. She scooped up the last of Derrick Fuller’s books and wandered through the stacks until she found the perfect subject.

  “Okay,” Julia said. “I’ll take care of this for you. Have you seen him before, or is it some random creep?”

  “I’ve seen him before,” Annie said and placed the remaining I Promise books behind The Secret Lives of Tapeworms in the science section. A smile grew on her face. She felt like Jack Bauer on 24 who saved President Palmer and Los Angeles for at least one night.

  “Why do you hate me so much Cupcake, when all I have is good intentions and lucrative deals for you?” Derrick asked as he poked his head out of the tapeworm book.

  “That’s a good start. Do you know this worm’s name?”

  “Absolutely. His name is Derrick Fuller,” Annie replied.

&nbs
p; “Dr. Derrick Fuller?” Julia’s eyes spun in her head. “Annie. Dr. Derrick Fuller’s the guy who probably screwed your husband. And, he’s dead.”

  “Yeah, one would think that.” She sat down on a stool next to a bookshelf. “But apparently, whoever killed him didn’t do their job right, ’cause he’s alive enough to be haunting both me and my grandmother. He’s blackmailing me to help him find his killer.”

  Julia blanched. “That’s slightly out of my league.”

  “Oh, come on. The dead guy wants a contract. You’re a super lawyer, you do contracts.”

  Julia twirled a lock of her hair and grabbed her cell phone. “A contract between you and a dead guy? Waste of time. No court can enforce it,” she said, did a mini eye-roll and shook her head. “I think we should grab a bite. Have you eaten today? Maybe you’re hypoglycemic. I’m famished.”

  Derrick crossed his arms. “She doesn’t believe you.”

  “Story of my life.”

  “I know. We’re always hungry.” Julia pulled out her cell and hit speed dial. “But it’s L.A. We can’t eat as much here as people eat in other cities. Skinny is plump in L.A. Starving here is normal, even encouraged.” She put her cell to her ear.

  Derrick stepped directly in front of Annie. “Look at me.”

  She did. Unfortunately, he was standing, and she was seated, which meant she stared directly at his dead silver package. She shuddered.

  “I know it’s mesmerizing, but resist. Eyes up here.” Derrick gestured toward his head. “When you’re sensitive, no one believes you. You’re just labeled weepy girl, or tissue guy. Like that’s an illness or the plague instead of a gift.” He regarded Annie. “Every mystery, every crime needs a suspect, motive and opportunity,” he said. “We can work together. You help me and I’ll help you. I’ll prove it. Give me a question right now and I promise, I’ll help you figure it out.”

  Annie stood up, turned her back to him and crossed her arms. “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll channel your empathic vibe.”