1 Cupcakes, Lies, and Dead Guys Page 7

  Appropriate Occasions: Introduce oneself to new neighbors. Possibly get invited to Venice Beach parties. Establish one as single, happy and carefree. Make nice with local gang members so they a) don’t shoot in your direction and b) pick the block two streets over for their next turf war.

  Best Served With: Romantic comedies. Snot ball fetching. Wondering if you’ll ever feel like yourself again.

  Six

  Happy Endings

  Old trucks, weathered sedans and the occasional tricked-out ride filled the county morgue’s parking lot. Derrick sat on the hood of an older Ford 150 truck and ruminated. He was the acclaimed author of the I Promise self-help book series. If there was one dead guy on the planet who could figure out who killed him, well, it was he. Once he brought this low life to justice he’d move on to the After-Life. Which in his case, had to be Heaven.

  He’d love to know what Heaven felt like. He guessed it would be like the spa at Two Bunch Palms, just more hedonistic. He wondered what “the bunch” was in those two palms that demanded six hundred dollar a night for a basic room at that very fine resort in the desert? He imagined it was a bunch of…hmm… in the salt-water pools with naked frolicking young women. Or the bunch could be… in the fresh water pools with firm chested, Adonis-like, young men who would likely be frolicking, too. There would be Jacuzzis, eucalyptus steam rooms, saunas and every yummy bodywork miracle treatment known to heaven kind. He’d personally sign up for a massage with a happy ending, every day. Make that two.

  After a while spent sunning, salt scrubbing, steaming, frolicking and happy endings at the spiritual spa, he’d graduate and move onto the next life. Reincarnation. Most likely with all his good karma he’d come back as a prince (either the singer but with good hips, or a potential leader of a decent-sized country). Maybe even a future George Clooney without the early string of TV failures. But dammit, he wasn’t even close to being there. Why? The only reason he could think was that he needed to find the idiot who killed him and bring that dither head to justice. Then he could check into Heaven.

  He was already compiling a list of his possible murder suspects. He couldn’t trust the police or justice system to find and convict his real killer. After all, how many palms had Derrick greased over the years to get out of a little trouble? Or worse case scenario. What if the cops never found the right person and his case languished, like one of those sad forgotten cold cases? He was Dr. Derrick Fuller. He was not going to be a cold case.

  Derrick closed his eyes and concentrated. “I, Dr. Derrick Fuller set my intention to find my killer and bring him to justice.” He paused as he realized he could speed this process along if he had a little help from the right, live, personal assistant-type person. “And do it promptly.” His assistant would be a catalyst and could save him months, even years. When the big idea, the ‘I Promise’ idea hit him. His new assistant would be psychic. Kind of.

  He didn’t want one of those psychic whack jobs on TV. Or the ones with “Ask Madame Sylvia” signs in front of their tacky houses with dried out lawns. Most psychics seemed psycho. But with an empathic person as his assistant he could move on to the After-Life and enjoy his happy endings a lot sooner. Empathic people had a smidge of psychic ability. Empathics felt the emotions and physical reactions of other people in their bodies. They were basically over the top intuitive.

  Derrick smiled as he realized he already knew that empathic person. Kind of. He had counseled and subsequently been slightly non-professional with someone who was married to that person. His client (Guy? Girl? Who could remember?), insisted that their spouse was supposedly the real deal, empathic. Now what was that cute, inappropriate person’s name? It started with or sounded like an M or an N. Hmm. Who had he fooled around with in the past month that had a name with the first initial sounding like an M or an N? Emanuel. Eminem. Martha. Markito, Michele, Mick, Matthew, Mariah, Nathan, Nick, Nelly, Nellito, Dorito, Marcos, Mike. Or was it Mark? He couldn’t remember it for the life of him.

  Okay, he needed to rephrase that. But not now, because this being dead thing sucked. Maybe it was the drinks, before he died. Maybe he was just a hung-over dead guy. Please no. Next nightmare he’d wake up still dead but with a beer belly and love handles. But, first things first. He had to find Mike or Mark or Martha’s significant other because he knew in his beat-less heart that he did not die of natural causes. And whoever murdered him, look out. It wasn’t Dr. Derrick Fuller’s time.

  It was daytime February 16th at the sun-bleached, brick, three-story, fifties-styled building that housed the West Los Angeles division of the city’s police department. Detective Raphael Campillio strode over the raised edges and cracks on the old sidewalks toward the building. Poorly pruned jade plants lined the outside walls of the structure. In Chinese medicine, jade bushes symbolized good luck. Rafe thought whoever planted them here must have had a sense of humor. Besides L.A.’s finest, most of the people in this facility weren’t having a lucky day.

  The room the detectives and their captain gathered in a simple room. Coffee Bean and Starbucks cups sat on a long table with Whole Foods containers. An LA Times newspaper was flung open to a headline on page two that read, “Dr. Derrick Fuller. Dead. Really.”

  Detective Rafe Campillio and Kyle Pardue downed some food and coffee. Rafe flipped through the newspaper.

  Kyle paged through a weary looking edition of Maxim. “The last thing we want is another bungled investigation. Think O.J. The celebs always get off,” Kyle said. He was in his early forties, a little weathered and had a rep for nailing all the new Westside divorcees, as well as being a smart-ass. He worked as hard at the first two as he did on his booth-generated tan.

  “This time the celeb is dead,” Rafe said. “I doubt he was a suicide.”

  Kyle shot him a disdainful look. “You think? Don’t most suicides off themselves sunning next to their infinity pools? Fuller was definitely a homicide.”

  Captain Wallace Samuels, a stout African-American man in his fifties with silver temples and buzzed-cut hair reviewed a file on the table in front of him. “Pending final autopsy results, it appears Derrick Fuller was killed by poison, most likely cyanide,” he said.

  “Who alerted the pap-o-nazi who snapped the pics of the corpse in Star?” Rafe asked.

  “The photographer might be one of our own.” Captain Wallace sighed and called it. “Rafe, take the housekeeper, the wife…”

  “I want the wife,” Kyle interrupted.

  The Captain continued. “Kyle, interview the baker, Mrs. Annie Piccolino. Talk to Bill Gable, Fuller’s shooter from the night before. He’s tapped financially and still in County. The guy might have some friends, associates, maybe even his wife, who might be in on his Fuller death wish. And track down Gable’s daughter, Miss Sienna Saffron. She’s an actress, of sorts.”

  Kyle raised his hand. “Got it covered, Captain. Bellywood is a modern day classic. Can I have the wife instead of the baker?”

  “There’s also the usual gossip that the vic was somewhat unfaithful,” Captain Samuels said. “Feel free to follow any leads on jealous and betrayed significant others that might have wanted to escort Dr. Fuller into the next life.”

  “How unfaithful?” Rafe asked.

  “Mabel would have shot me, sliced my chest open, ripped out my heart and fried it in a pan with onions, unfaithful,” Captain Samuels said. He slapped the file closed and regarded his detectives.

  “She’s a good woman, Sir,” Rafe said.

  “Thirty years and counting good,” Captain Wallace said with a hint of a smile.

  “I want the wife,” insisted Kyle.

  “I’ll take the housekeeper,” Rafe said. “Kyle will handle Gable and his family. We’ll both interview the wife.”

  “Fine. Who gets the baker?” Captain Samuels flipped through his file. “Mrs. Annie Piccolino.”

  “I got it covered, Cap,” Rafe said.

  Happy Endings

  Description: Just when you thought that trendy ve
gan restaurant that you were coerced into dining at for some vegetarian’s birthday party was going to be a total disaster—Ta Da! Dessert is a yummy gluten-free flourless chocolate cake. Now, that’s a happy ending.

  Appropriate Occasions: Birthdays. Graduations.

  Best Served With: Frolicking. Two bunches. Re-incarnation.

  Seven

  Corpse Crispy Treats

  It was the morning of February 17th when Annie woke in her apartment on her couch in a long sleeved T-shirt and boxers. She glanced around her new digs. Compared to the apartment she shared with Mike, her furniture had radically thinned. Clean, lean, not a bad thing. Not all the boxes had been unpacked. But she was totally making progress. Her books were in shelves, which indicated she was organized. Several family pictures hung on the walls, suggesting people still loved her. And Teddy cuddled up against her forehead and purred. Lovely.

  It would have been perfect except that she still missed Mike. She rolled over, pulled a picture of him from under her couch. Stared at that cheater’s handsome mug and ruminated.

  She’d met Mike five years ago when she and Julia visited a comedy club on one of their many excursions to Chicago. He was an aspiring actor and performing troupe improv. He’d called her onstage to be the show’s audience participant. After the show he thanked her for being a good sport. They flirted. He asked for her number. She gave it to him. They dated long distance. Wisconsin—Chicago.

  On their fifth date, they split a picnic (her creation) and two bottles of Cakebread Cabernet (his fine contribution) at the drive-in theater in Wauwatosa, Wisconsin. She told Mike the story about how she got her tat. He said that was the funniest experiment he’d heard about high school acting class. Mike had also studied Method acting. In the third act of the movie, he insisted that she give him a prison tat, so she drew a tiny heart on the inside of his arm with blue ink. When they made love for the first later that night, he said he loved his tattoo and that he loved her. In response she blurted that she liked him—a lot. He insisted he’d make her love him forever.

  And damn, he tried. Over the course of nine months Mike wooed her with hysterical spot-on celebrity impersonations and outlandish practice auditions. One day he walked into her place and showed her his new permanent blue-hearted tat on the inside of his forearm, exactly where she had drawn the first. He asked her to marry him and move to Los Angeles to pursue his acting career. She said, “Yes!” She couldn’t imagine life without him.

  Maybe she just missed the idea of Mike. Like he was a concept, a construct, an example of what married life could look like. From the outside, their marriage had looked like a couple of pages in a freshly printed Sears catalogue. New, pretty and shiny appliances, friendly service people and a decent tool department. But unlike Sears, there were no warranties in marriage or in life. That sucked.

  She repeated her new mantra that she had honed on her marathon walk yesterday on Venice Beach. That was after she went to a yoga class. Her little brochure on “Coping with Anxiety” that Nurse Jennifer had stuffed in her purse after the fainting incident at the Oby-Gyne’s office mentioned yoga could be helpful. She chanted out loud to herself, “Omm, Shanti Shanti. Omm, get over it. Husband gone. Cat here. Life newwww.” She rolled off her couch, stuck Mike’s picture under it and padded toward her kitchen.

  She set her oven to three hundred and fifty degrees and walked to her bathroom. She showered, toweled off, moisturized and put on a fluffy robe. Brushed her teeth and flossed. Looked closely in the mirror. Was she not pretty enough for Mike? Her teeth looked pretty good. She had a couple new wrinkles around her eyes. She applied sunscreen. Still had good skin. Luck, genetics, whatever. Maybe because she was part Italian—that Mediterranean factor. Maybe she wasn’t smart enough for him? Maybe all these maybe questions had joined forces and formed the ‘Maybe Gang’. The Maybes would stalk and assault her emotions and self-esteem for a while. She knew she’d have to confront Mike eventually, but thankfully not today. She could usually say anything to anybody. But right now, she had no idea what to say to Mike. How do you scrape the scab off a wound that fresh and deep?

  She walked back into her kitchen dressed in shorts and a Kate Bush concert T-shirt as Teddy weaved between her feet and meowed loudly. “All right, already. Does someone need a kitty enema?” She pulled out a saran wrapped baking pan from her fridge, pulled off the saran and placed the tray in her oven. She wasn’t about to let a little trauma get in the way of her budding bakery business.

  Several boxes labeled 'KITCHEN' still sat on the counter. A stepstool was perched under some cabinets. She poured kibble into one of Teddy’s bowls and smiled as he devoured it. She ground coffee beans, poured them in her coffee maker and turned it on. She flipped her laptop open. Clicked on to Internet access. She scrolled through the Los Angeles News and saw: “Highway 134 construction shut down due to road rage.” “Mayor admits affair with TV Reporter.” “Famed Self-Help Author Dies.”

  Her phone rang and she checked caller ID. It was Nancy. She hit the speaker button. “Yeah Mom, what’s up?” she asked and clicked on the “Mayor admits affair…” link on her computer. A picture of L.A.’s mayor holding hands with his long-suffering wife was juxtaposed next to a picture of his tits-on-a-stick twenty-something mistress in a clingy dress. What was it about marriage that made it impossible for some men to keep it in their pants after they had already signed an exclusivity agreement with a special someone? Were marriage vows just guy lingo for “I now pronounce that I get to secretively diddle whomever I want, hah hah hah?”

  Meanwhile Nancy launched, “I’m watching a Larry King promo. What a nice man. He’s been married twelve times and his current wife is much younger than him. She seems so sweet. How she has sex with him is another issue. Do you think she wears one of those nighttime herbal eye masks?”

  “Six wives, Mom. Don’t know about the mask,” Annie said, poured a cup of coffee, took a sip and looked at the phone. She realized that this was indeed a Nancy/Mom phone call. She downed that cup, poured another stiff one and pounded that one down as well. Poured a third, just in case. After her last couple of days, being prepared was probably a good thing.

  Nancy continued, “I’m worried about Larry’s spine. He looks incredibly stiff. I think Carson could adjust him and help restore some mobility. Mr. King would look better on TV and maybe his wife would stop wearing that mask if his spine moved.”

  “Maybe she’s not worried whether his spine moves, Mom. And you don’t know if Larry’s wife wears an herbal eye mask during their intimate moments.” Annie ripped the packing tape off one box. Tape ripping was an effective tool to deal with irritation and stress, like yoga or chi-kung.

  “Well, I would.”

  “Which is one reason Larry’s not married to you, Mom,” Annie said and pulled stuff covered in bubble wrap from the box. Unwrapped one piece. A teacup—her beautiful wedding china. It was so pretty. Her eyes welled up and she put it aside. She pulled out big china dinner plates, salad plates and soup bowls. They were gorgeous.

  “You don’t have to be mean to your mother, you know. Don’t stain on my parade.” Nancy's voice quivered.

  “I’m not trying to be mean. I’m sorry. And it’s ‘rain’ on your parade. Not ‘stain.’” Annie shook her head. There were several reasons she lived in Los Angeles. This conversation highlighted one of them. Next issue, where to put her china? She opened an overhead cabinet. The highest shelf was empty and had plenty of room. Perfect.

  “I think you should move home to Wisconsin. Mike’s a no go husband on the up swing. You could be a successful baker here in Oconomowoc. Fried crème puffs, fried donuts, fried banana splits, fried pumpkin pie. It’s genius, I tell you. You’d be a sensation practically overnight. Fred down at the Butter Barn promised me he’d not only carry your baked goods, but would prominently display them.”

  “Next to his syringes filled with pure cholesterol?” Annie asked. She climbed her stepstool to place her china in its new home on th
e high shelves. “Mom. The average summer temperature on the Westside of Los Angeles is seventy-five degrees with mild humidity. The average summer temperature summer in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, is ninety-five degrees with ninety-eight percent humidity. People die from melting in Oconomowoc, Mom. They vaporize into little pools of liquid and guts on their floors. Their cats and dogs get hungry because no one’s feeding them and finish off what’s left of the bodies. Eventually these people are missed. A friend or family member investigates their house or apartment and finds a tiny puddle of guts, or maybe a toenail that the cat coughed up and they call the police. But it’s too late, those missing people are melted, eaten and eventually the toenail is buried in a crypt adorned with stone cherubs in one of Oconomowoc’s three cemeteries.”

  “Those cherubs are not stoned. You’ve been in California for too long.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Our humidity is good for one’s complexion. Wisconsin girls look younger than California girls. If you know what I mean.”

  Annie climbed down her step stool, took the cookie tray out of the oven and placed it on a cooling rack. She lifted that flawless teacup, held it up to her face and traced its colorful pattern with her index finger.

  “Mom, I’m perfectly okay with people calling me your sister. But I will not move back to Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. End of this conversation.”

  “Your mistake.” Nancy sniffed.

  “My sanity.” Annie climbed back up the stepstool, holding the teacup. “I highly doubt Larry King’s going to fly to Oconomowoc so my brother, Carson the chiropractor, will crack his neck. Besides, what’s with the sudden worry for Larry King?”