1 Cupcakes, Lies, and Dead Guys Page 9

  “No!” Julia and Grady yelled in unison as they threw chips at her.

  She tossed them back. Unfortunately, Teddy got caught in the middle of the chip volley and was pelted. One had a little sour cream on it and stuck on top of his head like a tiny yarmulke as he screeched out of the living room.

  “You do not call yourself damaged goods,” Julia said.

  “Agreed,” Grady said. “However, you're hogging the drugs again, Julia. I see a pattern.”

  Julia threw the Vicodyn bottle at Grady and it bounced off his chest.

  He picked it off the ground and popped the childproof top open with one hand. “Thank you, Darlin,” he said. “You’re just shell shocked right now, Annie. Sometimes big alpha protective men like Caliente actually like fragile cute chicks.”

  “Yes, he’s the cover boy for a bodice ripper. But no thanks. Besides, Julia needs to be my lawyer should Caliente finger me for the crime I would have loved to commit, but unfortunately didn’t.”

  “I’m not touching the ‘finger’ comment.” Julia turned to Grady. “If the United Film Program Scholarship is your goal, you’d better start writing that thing in script format. I hear they require a completed script and don’t accept notes.”

  “You’d think the Vicodyn would chill you. But it doesn’t. Why?” Grady asked. “Are you like a Vicodyn vampire?”

  “It’s the south, baby,” Julia replied. “We learn how to deal with all sorts of mind altering things growing up in the south.”

  Corpse Crispy Treats

  Description: To really inspire people with this recipe, it's a good idea to purchase a gingerbread man baking cutout. After you’ve concocted your delicious treat, you can cut Mr. Corpse Crispy using several authentic, autopsy-like, traditional post-mortem surgical procedures. (Watch CSI for pointers.) Hand out body parts to your guests and/or birthday party kids. You can have a party game where each kid must guess the body part they are devouring. Original! Entertaining!

  Appropriate Occasions: When Pin the Tail on the Donkey is considered boring. When trying to explain to young children what happens to some bodies after death. When someone had been really mean to you and you need to do something revengeful that won’t land you in jail.

  Best Served With: Gloating: “Hah-hah. I won because you died before I did.”

  Eight

  Funeral Fritters

  Ten days later, February twenty-seventh at two p.m., Annie pulled her dusty old Cabrio into the driveway of the famous Yogi Meditation Shrine. A prominently displayed sign at the entrance stated, “No Trespassing – Bad Karma.”

  Annie’s hair was stuffed under a ball cap, and she was wearing large dark sunglasses. Grady wore a cowboy hat, equally large sunglasses and a “Sexyback” T-shirt. He slumped in her passenger seat, officially riding shotgun. He pointed at the second sign and read aloud, “Our monks (the guys wearing brown and orange robes) have taken vows of silence & abstinence (from junk food.) Please don’t talk to or feed the monks. Namaste.”

  Annie had been to the shrine once before. It was heavenly. The Yogi Meditation Shrine was a drop dead gorgeous cross between an arboretum and a place of pilgrimage and worship, located on ten prime acres situated about a mile east of the Pacific Ocean. Fifty years ago, an eastern Indian sage visited California, fell in love with the land and convinced his followers to purchase this property. Throughout the years a small pond was created from a dredged marsh. The surrounding gardens were filled with indigenous as well as exotic flowers and trees.

  A cedar walking path rambled around the lake. Every ten yards or so was an altar or a park bench for someone to sit. That person could be still and meditate, ruminate, or simply remind herself why she shouldn’t chuck it all and jump in the pond and drown. It was a veritable Garden of Eden. A pinch of Gandhi’s ashes was enshrined here. The Yogi Meditation Shrine’s guest book included signatures from Jimmy Carter, Ronald Regan, the First Bush, Clinton, and Nelson Mandela. Other visitor signatures included the Barbras (Walters, Streisand…), Rosie, Ellen, Deepak, tons of activist celebs and a list of people whose good intentions seemed to go on forever.

  There was one car in front of Annie’s at the guard station set up for Derrick Fuller’s memorial service. A woman with three chins stuck her sixty something, overly coiffed, helmet hair head out of the driver’s window of her spit polished Cadillac. “Bootsy and Bob Bauerfeld from Family Values’ Groceries, party of two.”

  The event parking organizer, a beefy red-faced guy dressed in a cheap sweat stained suit, checked his clipboard.

  This gave Annie a little time to shuffle through a file with a hundred or so newspaper clips and printed stuff from the Internet. All the copies were about Dr. Derrick Fuller. Yes, he was dead. His expedited autopsy confirmed cyanide poisoning. The ongoing investigation said most probably homicide. There were several key suspects as well as persons of interest. She held a newspaper clipping that read, “Dr. Derrick Fuller’s memorial service at three p.m. at the Yogi Shrine. You must call the number at the bottom to confirm. Please arrive early, as this event may be over-booked.”

  The organizer waved Bootsy and Bob’s car into the parking lot and motioned Annie to pull forward. “Name?” he asked.

  “Annie Rose Graceland. Party of two.”

  The organizer checked under the E through H pages on his clipboard. He shook his head. “No Graceland.”

  “Try Piccolino.”

  The organizer flipped to the M through P section. “I’m sorry, you’re not on the guest list. Please exit the premises.”

  Annie pulled out the newspaper article with the number and showed it to the organizer. “But I called the number and confirmed my reservation.”

  “Just because you called the number doesn’t mean you were invited,” he said.

  “Annie, we don’t need to actually be here,” Grady said. “Let’s check out this whole scene on Fox News tonight.”

  “I didn’t spend a week researching two hundred gag-me Dr. Derrick web sites, as well as making a hundred fake phone calls just to let this opportunity vanish,” she whispered. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. She felt… ornery.

  “I said turn around and exit the premises,” the organizer insisted.

  “No,” Annie replied.

  “Yes.” The organizer clapped his hands in the air. Six valet guys dressed like penguins materialized around him. They squeaked and flapped their arms.

  “Just do what the sweaty guy says,” Grady whispered.

  She eyed Grady. “You’re overly nervous. Something you need to tell me?” She reached one hand out to touch his arm but he leaned as far away from her against the passenger car door.

  “Remember—losing the battle doesn’t cost you the war.”

  “No wars. I vibrate peace. Anything you want to share before I vibrate this guy’s piece? Only for a little bit, promise.” Annie asked.

  “No,” Grady said.

  “Look lady. Leave now or I will call for additional back-up,” the organizer said.

  “I’m sorry. That’s not possible,” Annie looked in the rearview mirror. Five limos and a Benz had pulled in line behind her. Perfect. She smiled at the organizer and widened her eyes innocently. “Ohmygod. The limo behind me. Is that Oprah?”

  The organizer whip-turned and squinted at the limo’s tinted windows.

  Annie seized the opportunity. She shut off her engine and stuffed her car key down her shirt into her bra.

  Bootsy, wearing three-inch heels and a very tight St. John’s suit, teetered across the parking lot toward the shrine’s entrance. She was accompanied by her husband Bob, twenty years older and leaning on his cane with each step. “Hurry up, Bob! For God’s sake, we are Family Value’s Gold Medallion level I Promise sponsors. We deserve a prime spot at the memorial.”

  Bob thrust his cane in the air and growled, “Go for it Boots. I promise I’ll catch up.”

  The organizer turned and glared at Annie as additional cars and limos queued behind her
car. “Last chance. Move it.”

  “Oops. My car just died,” Annie said. “We’d better call Triple A. Oh my, that could take a while. In the meantime, maybe your backup could bring you a more appropriate suit? One whose crotch and armpit areas aren’t permanently stained.”

  The organizer looked down at the noted areas and fumbled with his walkie-talkie. “We have a situation. No, not a bomb. More like a nobody bitch without an invite blocking the entrance.”

  A loud hum emanated from the beautiful hedges, fourteen feet apart, located in front of the parking lot. Two halves of a previously hidden electric fence moved toward each other. They zapped and incinerated every gnat, bee and fly that landed on them. The smaller bugs vaporized into a blue-purple smoke. The bigger bugs hit the ground, squiggled what was left of their legs and collapsed. For all the peace, love and groovy vibes that this Shrine oozed, it still featured a fence that would happily fry a human’s trespassing behind.

  Bootsy tried to squeeze through the electric fence, but the two halves of the gate closed and trapped her amply endowed behind. One butt cheek and foot in the shrine, one butt cheek and foot still in the parking lot. She squeaked, her eyes lit up, her hair sparkled and frizzed like a bad perm. The metallic threads in her suit took on a new sheen and resembled mini sparklers at a 4th of July party. Bootsy screamed but managed to pull herself to the Promised Land on the good side of the electric gate.

  “Bob!” she screamed from the opposite side of the fence. “Don’t worry. I’m fine!”

  Bob rubbed his hip and looked a little bummed. “Great. I’ll meet you after the service at the reception. I promise.”

  Grady fanned his face with his hat. He now looked panicked. “Seriously, Annie. This is a good time for us to turn around and leave.”

  Annie frowned. “Where I come from Grady, 'bitch' isn’t a neighborly word.” She turned to the organizer. “I think a solution to both our problems would be to push my car into that parking space,” she said and pointed to a space within the shrine’s parking lot, yards away. “That way, all the somebody guests behind me could pull in and either park or valet. That seems fair to me. The nobody bitch.”

  The organizer responded to his walkie-talkie. “Yes. Copy.”

  Annie whispered to Grady. “Okay, watch this. We have him. Cheap suit organizer will not only cooperate, but probably offer to valet my car and give us complimentary foot rubs to make up for being a prick.”

  The organizer clicked off his walkie-talkie and turned to Annie, “I don’t know where you’re from, lady. But death in L.A. is by invitation only.” He snapped his fingers at the penguins and barked something in a foreign language. The penguins lined up on the sides and rear of Annie’s Cabrio and pushed it. But not to the spot in the parking lot. They pushed it straight toward the electrified fence.

  Grady clutched his cowboy hat with one hand and his heart with the other and watched the zapping electric fence slowly approach through the windshield. He wiggled his door handle, but it was locked and controlled on Annie’s side of the car. “I know you’re stubborn and like to stand on principle. Admirable,” Grady said. “But what I’ve never told you before is that when I’m under certain types of duress, I have heart palpitations. I’m having them now. Put the keys in the ignition and turn this car around. For the love of God and my mother in Iowa who still has my Boy Scout merit badges and doesn’t know I’m gay.”

  Annie whip turned and stared at him. “You told me two thousand times that you’ve been out forever. You bragged about it. Your mother doesn’t know you’re gay?”

  The penguins huffed, puffed and pushed the Cabrio just yards from the fence.

  “Aaah,” Grady hissed and hunched over. “Big secret revealed. Everybody in the universe knows I’m gay except for my mother. At least throw on the emergency brake or something.”

  Annie threw on the emergency brake, which stopped the car abruptly and toppled a couple of the penguins to the ground where they lay groaning and clutching various body parts.

  “Oh-my-God I hope they’re okay!” Grady said.

  “They probably just have minor hernias or slightly bulging lumbar discs.” She snapped her fingers at him. “Focus on your mother. How did you explain your creativity, your snappy sense of humor, your less than five percent body fat and your…”

  “Fabulousness?” Grady replied.

  “Yes.”

  “She thinks I left the Baptist church and became a Pentecostal.”

  Annie giggled, grabbed the key from her cleavage, stuck it in the ignition and fired up her car’s engine. She turned and waved at the remaining vertical penguins out her window. “Thanks for the help! We’re up and running and will be on our way now.” She revved, made a sharp Youie and exited the shrine’s official premises. But not before slowing down at the organizer’s booth where she grabbed his attention with a, “Hey!”

  He turned and sneered at her. “Was that as much fun as cow-tipping?”

  “Ask your girlfriend, Mooey. The Salvation Army’s having a closeout on suits this weekend. Good luck!” They screeched out of the exit and passed Detectives Rafe Campillio and Kyle Pardue, who were entering the Shrine through the pedestrian gate.

  Rafe turned and stared at Annie.

  Kyle noticed. “We’re partners. Share, dude.”

  “She’s the baker in the Fuller homicide.”

  “The Cupcake Killer? Sexy.” Kyle eyed Rafe, searching for weakness, interest. “If I do recall, she’s separated, correct-a-mundo?”

  “I have no idea,” Rafe lied.

  Annie and Grady drove two hundred feet up Sunset Boulevard past parked cars and news vans with enormous satellite dishes, as well as some paparazzi. She veered to the side of the road and parked in the dirt next to the Shrine’s friendlier non-electric chain-linked fence. That fence also posted a “We CATCH Trespassers!” sign.

  “Man, you almost gave me a heart attack,” Grady said as he wiped his sweaty face with his T-shirt. “You called and said, ‘Oh let’s work on your script, Grady. I’ve got some good ideas, Grady. It’ll be fun.’ This isn’t fun, Annie. I still think you’re the bomb, so I’ll hang for five more minutes but then I’m leaving.”

  She rapped her knuckles on his head, twice. “Knock knock. Wake up call. This town will eat you up and spit you out like a cat hacking a furball. So suck it up. The best ideas are born from tragedy and heartbreak. Like when the Pumpkin Ride at Hollywoodland spun off its tracks and scattered broken people. It was terrible and unfortunate and everyone was completely freaked. But within four months, there were three TV movies of the week about it on three different networks,” Annie said. “You’re telling me that if some narcissistic asshole stole your husband, ruined your life and died, all in two days that you wouldn’t be just a tad curious who would be passing out, weeping or hiding big fat smiles at his funeral?”

  Grady frowned. Then nodded his head. “Right. But you never mention Mike’s culpability in any of this. Mike’s not innocent. Eventually, you have to confront Mike.”

  Annie shook her head. “Yeah. But thank God that's not today 'cause then I’d really friggin’ lose it. And this coming from the guy who hasn’t come out to his mother after how many decades? Stay in the car and worry a few more years. I’ve spent ten days without a husband, an f’d ankle, not one single smoke and still gathered information. I’ve got suspects to pursue and I’m not waiting one second longer.” She tossed her fat “Dr. Prick Fuller” file into the back seat. She grabbed her purse and pushed her driver’s door open with a crutch. Placed her heavily wrapped ace bandaged left foot and ankle on the ground. Leveraged herself to standing on a crutch. She winced from the pain.

  Grady watched her. “Before you go all John Wayne on me, you need to take your anti-inflammatory meds.” He hopped out of the passenger seat and handed her two pills and a bottle of water.

  “It’s just a sprain.” She downed the pills with a swig of water. “Nice Stetson. Clint.” She turned, and with the aid of her
crutch hopped down the dirt path next to the shrine’s metal fence, grimacing the entire time.

  “Your ankle’s a grade two sprain, which means if you screw it up and don’t stay off it surgery’s a possibility.” He followed her. “You told me to wear a hat. You said we had to be semi-disguised.”

  “For a few dollars more you could have sprung for chaps and a pony.”

  “For a few dollars more you could call me Chap and I’d be your pony.”

  Her serious face collapsed into squidgy giggles. He laughed as well and caught up to her. “Do you want to lean on me?”

  “No thanks, Bill Withers.” She waved him away and continued limping toward the fence. “I’m cool. I’m a cool chick who has it together.”

  Derrick presided over his funeral procession like Queen Elizabeth at high tea. He didn’t quite have the proper hand wave down yet. But damn it he was here. It was his ultimate party, his funeral after all. He watched and noted who showed up and who didn’t. He planned to make a list of anyone who left his services early. He noted his immediate entourage: Tawny, his wife with Madison, his metro-cized new manager. There was Concha, his maid, and Barry, his old manager. Ginger, his trainer. God bless her. He looked good at the open-casket viewing several days ago, as well as in Star magazine. The skinny guy in his forties with the weird eyes was Lewis, one of his many lawyers. Dr. Stern, his dermatologist. And Franco. His young, twenty-something innocent face was squished into lines of mourning. Poor Franco, maybe the only man he ever...

  Did any of his crew look guilty? Like they killed him? Derrick didn’t know. He was still a little fragile, not quite on his game. He futzed with his spirit hair, smoothed it and smiled at a smattering of celebrities as well as their caretakers: agents, managers, publicists and stylists. Over in the corner he spotted Morgo. How the hell did he get in? Fat Bootsy came clunking down the cedar chip footpath. Jeez, if he were still alive, he’d be making five hundred weekly from Bob Bauerfeld for Bootsy’s personal consultation. Booty’s 1980s perm was so over. Perhaps Bob had grown tired of the two thousand dollar monthly checks he wrote to Derrick for two years and snapped…nah.