Cupcakes, Lies,

a nd Dead Guys

Cupcakes, Lies,

and Dead Guys

Pamela DuMond

www.krillpress.com

Cupcakes, Lies,

and Dead Guys

© 2010 by Pamela DuMond

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any

means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written

permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in

critical articles and reviews.

Cupcakes, Lies, and Dead Guys

is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are

products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any

resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by Krill Press LLC.  All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-0-9821443-7-4

Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated To:

Susan DuMond. Thanks for being my

biggest cheeerleader, Mom. I love you.

John DuMond, 8/9/24–6/9/93.

You always made me laugh. I hope my

book makes you laugh, all the way to

Heaven. Love you, Dad, always.

Kaye DuMond. You touched my heart

and supported me in ways I never dreamt

possible. You are the perfect Step-Mom.

My love and thanks.

Pamela DuMond

ONE

Magic Muffins

Annie Rose grabbed a festive bag from the trunk of her older VW convertible and scoped the surrounding area for witnesses. Ninety percent certain that there were none, she quietly shut the trunk and crouched, low, behind her car. Yes, she was going to do something naughty, and no, she didn’t want anyone to see.

Something bright red and shiny snagged her attention. She looked up at an army of large, decorative, metallic heart shaped balloons with Happy Valentine’s Day printed on them. They floated overhead from streetlights next to towering palm trees and seemed to smirk at the mortals below. Are you loved? Do you have a Valentine in your life? Is your honey taking you out for dinner, surprising you with flowers and a giftie? Or are you alone? Again.

Damn balloons. Annie frowned and fumbled through her weathered but timeless Coach purse. So what if her husband Mike was out of town shooting an indie? Who cared if he was a little preoccupied and somewhat distant, lately? Valentine’s Day was a stupid holiday. Too much pressure, too many expectations. She would have gladly done serious damage to the guy who inspired this crappy, sappy holiday. And then she remembered: Valentine had pissed off a Roman politician so much that Mr. Caesar chopped off that loser’s head. Served Saint Do-Gooder right. She pulled out a cigarette, secretively lit it, and inhaled deeply. Aaaah.

God, it was so hard to smoke these days. Especially on a busy commercial street in sunny, pristine Santa Monica, California. People looked at you like you’d just dropped your drawers and peed on the sidewalk. It’s not that Annie really wanted to smoke. She had already cut back, knew she had to quit. But, how? Nasty tasting gum, a poisonous patch and anti-depressants? Frankly, all options just seemed like, ick. But she was thirty-eight years old and jonesing for a baby. She’d promised Mike that she’d clean up her oven before they officially tried to get pregnant. Her biological clock, which Mike called her Irish-Italian-German weapon of mass destruction, was ticking.

She checked her watch, stomped out her ciggie, and shoved the butt into her purse. Tired of being judged as a smoker, she wasn’t about to be accused of littering as well.

She jogged down the block towards two white twenty-story buildings, so gleaming and spotless, she half suspected overzealous dental hygienists flossed the buildings’ exteriors every night. She was going to a very important appointment and had to be as clean and presentable as possible. She grabbed breath spray from her purse, spritzed her mouth and then, oh, what the hell, her hands, too. Ran them through her hair, exchanging the smoke smell for a minty-fresh peppermint. Now her ’do was fresh, albeit a little sticky. Thank God it wasn’t fly season. She wiped her hands on the “Juicy” brand embroidered sweats that clung to her moderately toned ass, when out of friggin’ nowhere, an ancient baby stroller piled high with recyclables and a sleeping bag pushed by a beat-up homeless man, materialized in her path.

She tried to dodge the funky caravan but couldn’t slam on her brakes fast enough. It’s not that she was a linebacker. She was actually a size four or six or eight, depending on salt intake, what dessert she was perfecting, and that time of the month. She clipped this homeless guy’s show-they spun around, cans and vitamin water bottles flying one way, her and the homeless guy going the other.

“Damn!” she said and caught herself on the stroller.

“Oof,” the homeless guy said, also aimed at the pavement, but caught himself right above her Juicy. Actually, right on her Juicy.

She gasped. Oh God no, had she run over someone again? Was this victim alive? Judging by his firm grip on her butt and surrounding private areas, she assumed he was. “Are you okay? I’m really sorry,” she said. “I didn’t see you. I’m rushing…” Was he going to take his hands off her nether regions, or had he died and gone into premature rigor mortis?

He removed his hands and pushed back his hair. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, picked up his scattered recyclables and belongings, and tossed them back in the stroller.

Up close, Mr. Homeless didn’t seem all that scary. “I’ll help,” she said and bent down to pick up his notebook lying on the sidewalk.

He snatched it away from her and tossed it into the stroller. “I don’t need any help.”

Annie tossed her ponytail over her shoulder. “Look,” she said as she dug through her purse and thrust some cash at him. “My mistake. I didn’t see you. I’m really, really sorry.”

“I’ve had worse days,” he said and ignored the five spot she waved at him as he picked up his last plastic bottle.

“Okay.” She retrieved her bag from the sidewalk and looked inside. Good, they weren’t broken. She pulled out two items from the bag and offered them to the man. Those items were the size of a baseball, plump, and wrapped snugly in saran wrap, with a sticker on top that read, “Piccolino’s Pastries.”

“These are freshly baked organic, carrot apple muffins. They have no trans fat or corn syrup. They’re healthy, delicious and my recipe. If you bought them at the Tea Cup, it would cost you over five bucks, plus something for that stupid tip jar. Not to be against hard working people, but I hate that stupid tip jar. ’Cause 98% of the time all those people are doing is handing you the stuff that you’ve already bought. What if we had to tip at the self-serve gas station?”

He nodded his head. “But if you don’t put something in the tip jar, you’re considered a low-life.”

“I know,” she said. “Those service people are poorly paid, and I feel badly about that. But, I believe the responsibility lies on the shoulders of their employers. Not me. ’Cause, I’m basically poorly paid, too. The tip jar thing just escalates this war within my head, which drives me crazy.”

The homeless man frowned. “Tell me about it,” he said. Their hands touched for a moment as he accepted her food offering.

Sadness washed over Annie like a tsunami. It drowned her heart and flooded her head. She pulled away from him and swayed. Dammit. The stupid empathic thing was happening to her, in her, again. Her stomach heaved and she hunched over. She must have turned a funky shade of white, as he grabbed both of her arms and stopped her from taking a header.

“You okay? Breathe. Why don’t you tell me your name?”

“Annie Rose Graceland Piccolino,” she said and breathed deeply, just like he suggested. “Wow. I must have taken a bigger jolt than I thought.” She lied – it was definitely an empathic hit. It wasn’t her pain – it was his. But she felt it, in her body. She was still hunched over.

He hung onto her, holding her up. “Sometimes that happens,” he said.

She stood up, stepped away from him, clasped her hands behind her back and stretched her shoulders. Pounded her feet on the ground. Finally looked at him. “Thanks. I’ve got an appointment.”

“Then you’d better get to it.”

She picked up her bag, and walked off slowly down the sidewalk. Stopped. Turned and regarded him, unsure. “I know this is none of my business, but your brother’s worried about you.” She walked back towards him. “Give him a call and tell him where you’ve landed,” she pulled some bills from her purse.

His eyes widened as he nodded and took the cash.

Annie examined the directory on the wall in the very sterile lobby of St. Cecelia’s Medical Complex. Hollywood’s elite flocked to St. Cecelia’s. The directory list included laboratories and medical corporations, diagnostic facilities, and doctors for every body part imaginable. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass directory’s cover. She looked disheveled. That look would not work for her very important doctor’s appointment. She smoothed her long auburn curls, licked her finger and wiped a little smudge off her face.

She shared the elevator ride up with an ancient short man with bottle-thick spectacles. He had a red runny nose and rubbed his hands, over and over.

“You scared of heights?” Annie asked. Not an empathic hit, simply common sense.

The man gave her a knowing look, stood up as tall as he could and then sneezed and farted softly. “Ah. You recognize me!” he yelled. “Yes, Red. I am the Mort Feinberg of Feinberg’s Famous Deli. We’ve catered every celebrity bris, bar mitzvah, wedding and funeral in this town. Even the Christians and the agnostics hire us. But no, Red. I never wore tights or pantyhose, for that matter. That’s just another Hollywood rumor.” Mort plopped out two more sneezes, two more farts. “Sorry! You’re probably worried I’m contagious. But Dougie the pharmacist at the Rite-Aid on San Vicente told me I’m over that phase. I’m actually going for my annual prostate exam, today. Had a scare a couple of years back. But I don’t think you can catch that, Red. Although in this town you never know.” He eyed her up and down to ascertain if her goods were the real deal.

Annie hid a smile, which disappeared as she watched Mort rub his hands again. “Would you try this, Mr. Feinberg?” she hollered and handed him a muffin.

Their hands touched. She held onto Mort’s hands for a second longer than greeting an average stranger. “I’m a pastry chef and I’d love your professional opinion.”

Mort peeled back the saran wrap and took a bite. “Nice texture. Firm, but moist. You ever think about raisins?”

She closed her eyes for a moment. Willed herself to go inside, really think about it, try to feel it, make the empathic thing happen. No, she wasn’t thinking about raisins. Okay, maybe Mort’s kind. But she felt zip. Nothing went “Ding, Ding, Ding!” in her mind or body. She opened her eyes and steadied herself with one hand on the elevator wall. “No worries on your Doctor’s visit today, Mr. Feinberg. I get a good feeling you’re healthy as a challah. I’ll get back to you about the raisins.”

Mort handed her his business card. “You’re right and we’ve got a date, doll. Remember, I’m always looking for new culinary talent. Don’t be shy about calling that number.” The elevator door opened and he winked at her before he shuffled out, sneezing and farting down the hallway.

Annie walked, a little wobbly down the sterile hallway. She didn’t know if her gait was off from her fall or the multiple empathic hits that drained her ability to concentrate or balance. When she spotted the office door that housed the key to her dreams.

There were more names on that door than park benches with pigeon crap. How many M.D.s could one office hold? Maybe they were all really, really tiny. Like they’d been shrunk by one of the many medical labs on the premises in a top-secret government conspiracy.

Obviously, she read too many mysteries. Unless she completely trusted somebody, everything and everybody else could hold a deep dark secret, or an ulterior motive. The Medical Doctor, in the Laboratory, with the Revolver. Mike said she was paranoid. Her Irish grandfather said she was overly sensitive, but in a good way. Nancy, her mother, just wanted her to regularly attend a nice Lutheran church, pray and possibly find a single pastor to marry. Nancy was in denial that Annie was already married to Mike. How could that marriage be God-fearing or binding when they had tied the un-holy knot four plus years ago in some ticky-tacky chapel in Sin City Las Vegas?

For Annie it was binding enough that they wanted to cement their bond further by having a baby. She took her deepest breath of the day, and walked through that door.

On her stroll to the front desk she checked out the office walls. They were pastel. The art consisted of multi-cultural renditions of fertility goddesses, like a shrine to getting plowed, knocked up and birthing babies. This place was the mother ship for mother-dom.

She signed in at the ledger and handed muffins to both ladies behind the sliding glass windows. Receptionist Edna and Nurse Jennifer were attractive and hovered around forty years old. They wore medical scrubs decorated in cutesy teddy bears that happily played with their toes and other body parts. Their nametags featured smiling duckies. They oohed and aahed over the muffins like they were baby pictures, and thanked her.

“You’re welcome. Carrot apple muffins, completely healthy, my recipe and currently on sale at the Tea Cup and Country March Cafe,” Annie said. She turned and looked for a place in the waiting room to park her behind. But the room was packed. Apparently fifteen other women shared her appointment time. Ten of those women already appeared pregnant. Nine out of those ten couldn’t have been more than twenty-eight-years-old, max. Frankly, it was hard not to be discouraged.

She spotted an aging former supermodel hunched in the corner. Her belly was as flat as her career and dark circles hung under her eyes. One seat was empty and available directly next to her. Yay! It was like hitting the trifecta. Not only a chair, but also maybe a peer, or even better – an ally! Annie squeezed past a line of round tummies and sat down next to supermodel. Dug in her bag, pulled one out. “Muffin?” she offered.

Supermodel pouted. “Those were art pictures. I don’t know, and refuse to comment on how Penthouse got a hold of them,” she said, crinkled her pretty nose and fanned her face in irritation. “Smoke! I smell cigarette smoke. I went through rehab three times. I’m off alcohol, blow, heroin, and haven’t hit a nightclub in four months. My uterus is pure!” She pointed at Annie. “You! How dare you expose me to smoke!”

Damn, the minty fresh stuff didn’t work. Several women leaned away from Annie in horror. The entire room of Baby Belles turned and stared at her like she was wearing an “I’M A CHILD MOLESTER!” t-shirt at a playground.

Just in time, Nurse Jennifer cracked the miracle door between the waiting room and actual office hallway. She waved at Annie, “Mrs. Piccolino? Follow me.”

Montages of baby pictures, baby announcements and personalized Thank You notes filled the hallways walls. “You, Mrs. Piccolino are quite the baker,” Nurse Jennifer said.

“Pastry chef. Thank you!”

“As you know, St. Cecelia’s is a teaching hospital. Today Dr. Goldblatt will be assisted by Dr. Putter.”

“Dr. Putter’s an intern?”

“Yes,” Nurse Jennifer said and opened a door to an examining room. “Isn’t young blood exciting?”

“Aah…hmm.” Annie wasn’t sure how to answer. “Yummy.”

Dressed in her airy paper gown in a miniscule exam room, Annie reclined on the short exam table. Ms. Medical Assistant sat in the room’s corner, yawned and watched as Dr. Putter took her blood pressure. Ms. Assistant was obviously present to be Ms. Non-Malpractice Suit. Dr. Putter looked about fourteen years old. He had a patch of pimples on his forehead and three hairs on his chin like he was attempting to sprout a goatee. Maybe he was a savant. She checked out more framed wall montages of gorgeous babies and blissful parents. She pointed at a pic of one kid and smiled. “That one’s got Mike’s dimples and my eyes.”

Dr. Putter frowned. “Hopefully it doesn’t have your blood pressure. Have you been stressed out, um, I mean, experienced undue stress, lately?”

Now Annie frowned. “Well, my husband’s been gone a lot – acting classes and he’s filming an indie in Vancouver. I parked blocks away and ran to be here on time.”

Dr. Goldblatt burst into the room and grabbed Annie’s chart. Now this guy looked more like a doctor. Seasoned. Trustworthy. More salt than pepper in his hair. No pimples. He flipped through her chart and devoured the info in seconds. “Why is Mrs. Piccolino’s chart missing her lab results?” Dr. Goldblatt glared at Dr. Putter.

Dr. Putter twitched and squealed. “Her blood pressure’s 160 over 100.”

“I need her lab results. Now.”

“Yes, Dr. Goldblatt!” Dr. Putter raced out the door.

Annie stuck her hand out in a friendly gesture. “Hi Dr. Goldblatt. I’m – ”

“I understand you want to get pregnant. Please scoot towards the end of the examining table.”

Based on a referral by some friend of Mike’s, Annie had made an appointment with Dr. Goldblatt over two months ago. She’d visited St. Cecelia’s lab to get her blood work done ahead of time, to expedite this whole pre-getting pregnant checkup thing. While this was her first official meeting with the brilliant Dr. Goldblatt, apparently he was short on time. So, she scooted.

“All the way to the end of the table.”

She plopped her butt even further down. Her gown ripped and exposed her left breast. She reached and tried to cover it up.

“Yes, yours are lovely, but I’ve seen about eighty thousand. Feet in the comfy stirrups, please.”

She complied. Dr. Goldblatt squished and poked her boobs in what seemed like a very professional manner.

“When was your last mammogram?”

“Uh. I haven’t had one yet,” she confided.

“That’s irresponsible. You’re …” He referenced her chart. “You’re almost forty! You get a mammogram this week. I see on your chart that you’re a smoker. You have to quit. Smoking decreases your fertility, damages your lungs and heart. Eventually you’ll get those hideous vertical lip line wrinkles from sucking on something you shouldn’t be sucking on.”

Great bedside manner. Was Dr. Goldblatt now going to tell her what she should be sucking on? He picked up a ginormous speculum that looked alarmingly like a .44, and headed towards her hoo-hah.

“This might be a little chilly and you’ll feel a tiny pinch.”

Annie’s eyes widened and she reflexly clamped her legs shut, trapping Dr. Goldblatt’s arms between her inner thighs. “Sorry! Leg cramp.” She pictured one of those lean, mean, James Bond villainesses. Those chicks wouldn’t let the obnoxious Drs. Goldblatt and Putter pair putz in their privates, without at first showing a little respect.

“Yes, mother, I should have become a lawyer,” Dr. Goldblatt sighed. “Open, please. I have fifteen more appointments this hour.”

Dr. Putter raced back into the room and handed Annie an 8 X 10 white envelope adorned with a red rose. “Delivery service dropped it off. Came for you addressed to our office. Like, weird? Who knew you were going to be here today?”

She took the envelope, surprised. “Like, my husband Mike. My mom. My friends. My dry cleaner, Mr. Wong. He’s really nice and always gets the worst spots out. The salesgirls at Country March Cafe, The Tea Cup – ”

“My arm,” Dr. Goldblatt said.

Annie unclenched her legs. Dr. Goldblatt fell backwards. Dr. Putter thrust a wad of paperwork at him as he struggled to maintain his balance on his rotating stool. “Doctor, I think you need to take a look at these numbers.”

She looked at the envelope and the rose. It was red, in full bloom and beautiful. Mike had totally come through on Valentine’s Day. Annie smelled the rose, savored it. Maybe she didn’t hate this holiday as much as she thought.

She pulled out the contents of the envelope. They were 8 X 10 photo glossies. Ooh, did Mike have new headshots done? No. The first picture was of Mike, shirtless and making out with, well, had to be her! When was that picture taken? How sweet of him to send it. A reminder of their enduring love. She flipped to the next photo. Oh! This was a naked back and butt shot of Mike in a very compromising sexy position. He was being a Valentine’s Day bad boy! She smiled, held the picture a little closer to her eyes – she couldn’t see her face yet, or remember when these pics were taken. But this was so naughty, fun and very romantic. When Mike got back from his indie shoot, she’d surprise him and substitute smokes for a little something else suck-able. Thank you, Dr. Goldblatt for the pep talk.

“FSH high,” Dr. Goldblatt muttered as he reviewed Annie’s lab results.

“What does that mean?” Annie asked.

Dr. Goldblatt nodded complicitly at Dr. Putter. “Means Dr. Putter has to take your blood pressure again.”

She winced as the cuff expanded and squeezed the shit out of her arm. She flipped to the next picture. In this shot, Mike nibbled on someone’s perfect rippling abs. Annie didn’t have perfect rippling abs. Hers were more gravity-prone, waving-in-the-wind, bouncing-through-earthquakes kind of abs. Which meant that –

Oh jesusmothermaryandjoseph. Her husband was not only cheating on her, but also doing it with some slutty starlet with a rocking body.

She started hyperventilating. They moved to L.A. from Wisconsin four years ago to pursue Mike’s big acting career. He signed up for very serious, pricey acting classes, went on cattle calls and joined Gold’s Gym to get as buff and cast-able as possible. Let’s face it, not everyone could be the gladiator, but there was always a need for dying Spartans and spear-carriers. Mike encouraged her to pump iron with him. But she was passionate about using her spare time to pursue her own career as a pastry chef. Worked on creating her menu of delectable desserts. Maybe even have her own successful label some day, like Mrs. Field’s. Perhaps based on the photos she was viewing her decision was selfish.

Dr. Goldblatt stared at Annie’s lab results. “Your LH levels are high. Not good,” he muttered, and shook his head. “You’re not actress age thirty-eight, right?  That would mean you’re actually fifty.”

“I’m really thirty-eight. Who delivered this package?” she asked.

Her inquiry seemed to make Putter more nervous, and he pumped the blood pressure cuff higher. It swelled to near popping levels and for the life of her, Annie couldn’t contain. “Putter, I swear if my arm doesn’t explode first, I’ll personally chew it off and hand it to you. Take it home as a ‘First Day on the Job’ trophy,” she said.

Dr. Putter pouted, but let the cuff deflate.

She turned away, gathered her courage and stuck out her stiff upper lip. Yes, in Wisconsin, there really was such a thing usually due to a few too many brewskies before snowmobiling in below freezing weather. Her free hand shook as she flipped to the last picture in the Valentine’s Day batch. That photo was of a person who had chin stubble, developed arms, chest hair, and was passionately kissing Mike. It wasn’t a starlet with a hot bod. Her husband, Mike was making out with a man.

She screamed and dropped the pictures. She clutched her chest and wheezed. “I can’t breathe!” She fanned her face, gulped and tried to force air into her nose and mouth.

Dr. Goldblatt tossed her chart onto the countertop and sighed, “Mrs. Piccolino. You’re most likely experiencing what is commonly called a hot flash. I am sorry to inform you that you’re not prime to get pregnant. Lab results conclude you’re in peri-menopause.”

She felt her face flush with blood. “Shit. No. I. Can’t. Breathe,” she said, pinched Dr. Putter’s arm and pointed to the glossies lying on the floor.

He picked them up, blanched and showed them to Dr. Goldblatt who replied, “Do an HIV, an HPV, a Hep-C and a standard STD panel.” Dr. Goldblatt glanced at his watch. “Mrs. Piccolino. Chances of you conceiving without fertility measures are about one in a thousand. With fertility, it’s still very expensive and your insurance won’t cover it. And you still need viable sperm. Frankly, the odds don’t seem to be in your favor.”

“I can’t bre…” Annie rasped. “I ca…” she collapsed back on the table and one of her legs fell out of the comfy stirrups. She had one eye half open and watched the room spin around.

A discrete knock on the door and Nurse Jennifer popped her head inside. “Dr. Goldblatt your next five patients…” she began. “Good lord. She looks like a completely trashed Girls Gone Wild chick.”

Drs. Goldblatt and Putter regarded Nurse Jennifer, a little surprised.

“Oh, please. Do you really think I only watch Lifetime?” Nurse Jennifer said. “I’m calling 911.”

Dr. Goldblatt said, “Oh yes. She’s not dying on my table.”

Magic Muffins

Description: Pureed carrots and apples in a healthy, trans-fat free muffin batter baked to moist perfection and plump proportions.

Appropriate Occasions: An entrepreneurial way to introduce yourself and/or promote your fine line of baked goods. Offer as an apology gift after offending people, or injuring them. Buy time while you intuitively dive into another person’s body and search for emotional illness or disease.

Best Served With: An Entrepreneurial Spirit. Remorse. Curiosity. Empathic Ability.

TWO

The Bombshell

Grady Swenson, a handsome guy in his late twenties dressed in a J. Crew t-shirt and fabulous jeans, sat on the living room floor next to a box and packed knickknacks as he flipped through the photo glossies. “Who in the hell sent you these pictures?  Have you gotten any empathic hits? Possible clues?” he asked.

Annie stood behind a granite island that separated the kitchen from the small living room. She chopped Oreo cookies and threw them into a blender. “I was on my back sunnyside up with my privates exposed for the medical world to peruse. I wasn’t expecting paranormal ability. I don’t have a friggin’ clue who sent the photos,” she said as she turned on the blender. Her living room was being dismantled and packed. It had tall metal bookshelves, a big plasma TV, leather chairs, and a shabby chic-style couch. One wall was sliding glass doors that led to a balcony. Framed photos of Mike filled the rest of the wall space. Whether he posed as a Sears repairman in his snappy uniform, or a drug spokesman with a concerned look in his eyes, or as a father taking his beautiful children to school, there was no questioning Mike was handsome in an All American Guy kind of way.

There was also no room on the walls for anybody other than Mike. So a few family photos were shoved next to the books on the shelves. A pic of Mike and Annie smiling, cheek-to-cheek, in a wedding chapel with a sign hanging from the ceiling that read Church of Perpetual Marital Bliss. An older pic of a stern but beautiful silver-haired woman – Annie’s grandmother, Nonna Maria. A family photo of Annie’s mom, Nancy, a pretty, petite, blonde with her dad, Joe, a handsome young man in an army uniform.

Lined up on the granite kitchen island like a firing squad on high alert were prescription drug containers: Xanax, Wellbutrin, Ambien, oh my! Squared off against the western drugs were the old fashioned medicinals: bottles of alcohol, pints of ice cream and bags of cookies. New tech and old tech glared at each other over a chopping board and a chef’s collection of knives, all safely tucked in their little slots in a block of wood. The upscale kitchen that adjoined the island featured more granite, stainless steel sinks and Viking appliances.

Packing boxes, tape, and bales of bubble wrap threatened to swallow the premises. Annie’s twenty-pound cat, Theodore Von Pumpernickel, resembled a flying Persian carpet as he jumped in and out of boxes, convinced this was the funnest game in the world. In the living room, the 42” plasma TV, sound muted, played in the background. Meanwhile, Sheryl Crow rocked out from a large boom box.

Grady shouted over Ms. Crow and the loud whirring of the blender. “I swear to you, Annie. I’ve been out forever and I have decent gaydar. If I was more than thirty percent suspicious, I would have said something.”

Meanwhile, Julia, thirty-eight, naturally voluptuous with coiffed short blondish hair was  dressed in grubby clothes with a deep V-neck tight shirt that gave more than a peek of her push-up bra. She smacked tape on top of a box and sassed back. “Honey, in the South, if you had been even four percent suspicious, you are required by friendship law to have said something.”

Annie shut off the blender, turned and stared bleary-eyed at her two friends. Her red hair was tied on top of her head with garbage bag twisties. She wore a wife-beater, sans bra, sported a nicotine patch on her arm and resembled Linda Blair in The Exorcist. That would be right before poor Linda’s head rotated 360 and she vomited pea soup. In one hand, Annie held a half empty bottle of vodka, in the other, Kahlua. She gestured with both bottles, wildly. “Let’s get one thing straight, right now,” she said.

Julia and Grady stared studiously at their feet.

“Hah hah. You both know what I mean.” She put down the bottles, grabbed a knife from the chef’s collection and furiously chopped Oreo cookies on the butcher block. “I’m not mad at Mike for being with another man. Frankly, I believe that sex is sex. Unless it’s with a minor, or against someone’s will, or with my cat.”

She put down the knife and poured thick dark chocolate ice cream drinks from the blender into three California Disney plastic mugs. Sprinkled the Oreo bits on top. “What I’m not fine with is that Mike broke our marriage vows. I am furious that he lied and deceived me,” she said, picked the knife back up and gestured at Grady and Julia who backed up. “Don’t fucking promise me a lifetime commitment with children and grandchildren when you’re dicking around with anyone other than me. And if you’ve changed your mind? And this is more than sex and you’ve fallen in love with someone else? Then have the friggin’ decency to tell me first.”

Annie set down the knife and impaled straws in the drinks. “That’s why I filed for separation from Mike today. Have a Bombshell. They’re my recipe and quite delicious.” She stabbed the knife into the butcher block. Leaned her elbows on the counter and collapsed her very exhausted forehead into her hands.

Grady and Julia regarded each other. Grady ventured first, “Okay. We’re here to pack. So, what’s next? Pictures, books?”

Julia said, “I’ll handle the pictures. Why don’t you pack the knives?”

Backstage from the ballroom at the LAX Hotel & Suites, Barry Cooperman, late fifties, pudgy but wearing a finely cut suit, peeked from behind the stage curtain. The room was set up for a Learning Annex seminar. A large stage loomed in front of a thousand folding chairs. Wannabees, hopefuls and down-on-their-lucks filed in clutching their I Promise promo packets. The crowd of approximately three hundred people gabbed amongst themselves, eagerly anticipating tonight’s A-list motivational speaker, Dr. Derrick Fuller, aka Dr. Dare!

Unfortunately, that left the ballroom about seven hundred bodies light, which translated to more than two thirds empty. That barely covered tonight’s nut.

Barry sighed, shook his head and checked his watch. Eight p.m. sharp. He slumped. Three years ago, that ballroom would be packed by now.

He turned and walked from the curtain through a harshly lit narrow hallway, and pondered his dilemma. Back in the good old days, there was no end of low lifes willing to shell out big bucks for a shot at the dream. Whatever that dream was. The Annex seminars were traditionally two-hour fishing trips. Drop a little bait, reel ‘em in, throw back the small ones and keep the few willing to plunk down bigger money for the pricier day and weekend seminars.

Barry was in debt up to his triple chin, and he had worried enough for each one. Why now, was Dr. Fuller’s career sagging? Darn. But Barry had a couple of other fish on the back burner. He remembered one of his most cherished manager beliefs and smiled. There would always be low lives. Therefore there would always be dreams. He was happy he’d taken action.

He knocked on a door, opened it and stuck his head in. “Derrick, we need to talk.”

“Later.” Derrick paced his small but comfy dressing room while he self-pep talked. “I promise – you’ll lose weight, blah blah. I promise, you’ll find true love, yadda yadda. I promise you’ll beat your disease du jour and be healthy again. I did.”

Derrick paused in front of the full-length mirror and admired himself. At fifty years old, he was still pleasing on the eyes. No receding hairline. His hair was longish, wavy and silver streaked. Dedication to the gym and his personal trainer earned him a more than decent bod. He leaned in to examine his face. Handsome. He wasn’t the only one who thought so. His cheeks were definitely chipmunky, but he was okay with that. His dermatologist assured him that high chubby cheeks in combination with Bo-tox and restylane would help him age well. He smiled. His dermatologist was right.

He walked down the hallway and paused behind the ballroom’s auditorium stage curtain to perform one last check with a hand mirror. Hair coiffed, skin flawless, shirt perfect, pants divine, zipper up, stomach sucked in, chest puffed out and spine straight. Dr. Phil must be so jealous. He probably stuck little pins into a picture of Derrick every night, and then hid it under his bed. Oh well. Not everyone could be as blessed as Derrick.

Barry started in, “Look Derrick. I’ve got it figured out–”

Derrick shushed him. “You know this is when I warm my vocal cords,” he said, then  chanted, “Ominidominifromini. Perry pilfered potted potatoes but preferred port. Sally sucked sailors silly since Saturday.”

In the background a Learning Annex Announcer proclaimed, “And now, the renowned author of the best selling, I Promise book series, the man who’s changed so many lives, the man you’ve all been waiting for, Dr. Derrick Fuller!” The audience applauded, and several people whistled.

Show time! Derrick smiled into the mirror. His teeth almost blinded him. “Tomorrow, Barry,” he said, handed him the mirror and walked to the curtain’s edge that led to the stage. “I promise you we’ll figure this out, tomorrow.”

In the corner of Annie and Mike’s fifteenth floor balcony a small but carefully tended herb garden sat on a little table, fought the smog, and still managed to grow. The balcony overlooked the Sunset Strip. Grady squatted, leaned back against the sliding glass doors, and took a long toke on his joint. He stared at the whole hot scene beneath him. The HOLLYWOOD sign on the hill in the distance presided like a cheesy cable TV judge over the twinkling lights, nightclubs, trendy restaurants, sex stores, and lit billboards that flashed nearly every bare asset imaginable.

He framed the scene with his hands like an imaginary lens and pretended to shoot footage of the twenty-somethings cruising on foot and in cars. The girls a little cookie-cutter hoochy. The boys a grab bag of quarterback handsome, garage band cool, and the occasional rocket scientist who couldn’t fit in let alone get laid until he made his first ten mil. The older sleazy dude with no hair, or slicked hair in a shiny suit armed with empty promises who tried to score one of the girls or boys. “Sign with me baby. I’ll make you a star…”

Hollywood was where everyone who wasn’t from L.A. thought dreams were made. In actuality, Hollywood was just a seductive pseudo-reality, posing game. For whoever longed to be beautiful, with someone beautiful, or was simply pervy, this was practically a documentary on how to do it.

Julia cracked the door, poked her head out and glared at Grady and his joint.

“Busted, I know,” he said and waited for his reprimand.

Julia yelled back to Annie, “I’m taking a breather.” She stepped outside onto the balcony, closed the door and sat down next to Grady. “I thought you had a fear of heights,” she said and pointed at the joint. “Share, please.”

He passed it to her. She inhaled deeply. Her shoulders sunk from her ears back down to where shoulders should be located. “Thanks.”

“I am scared of heights. But Annie’s trying to quit smoking so I thought it was best I did this, you know, outside,” he said and looked down on that crazy Sunset Strip. “This time of day, it’s actually almost pretty.”

“In a man-made comic book kind of way. But, is this your story?” she asked. “UFP script lab deadline’s coming up. You need to submit your story in a pristine script format. No crayons, doodles in the margins or a meandering first twelve pages. Submit your best work or move back to Iowa. No heights there. Not one hill, no dales.”

“I actually dated a Dale from Iowa, once. And no, the Strip’s been told too many times. I’ll know my story when I see it.” Grady shrugged. Hopefully. He snapped his fingers at Julia. “Stop hogging the pot.”

Julia took another toke, handed the joint back to him and squeaked as she talked without breathing. “I remember when Annie flunked her first driver’s license exam on her sixteenth birthday. Trust me, there was nothing sweet about that day. Don’t take anything that pops out her mouth right now personally.” She finally exhaled.

He nodded. “Totally know that. What kind of sick bastard would send those photos to her doctor’s office on Valentine’s Day?”

“Someone else who hates Valentine’s Day?” Julia said.

The patio door popped open. Annie held Teddy the cat in a strangle hold, and stuck both their heads outside. “You’re smoking dope and not including me on what’s probably the shittiest day of my life?”

Grady’s eyes widened.

“I am so not inviting you to my pot brownie parties, in my oh so fabulous future!” Annie slammed the door shut and thunk, locked it.

Grady looked at Julia, somewhere between floaty and unsure. “We’re okay, right?”

“No, honey. Those pot parties aren’t just brownies. They’re flourless chocolate cakes, carrot muffins… I’m hungry. Let’s order a pizza.”

“With what? Our imaginary phone?”

Julia giggled.

Grady tugged on the sliding glass door. It didn’t open. He felt something brush against his arm and flicked it away. A two-inch spider spun back up its tentacle to a ginormous web underneath the balcony above them. Grady screamed, pulled harder on the door. It was indeed, locked. He pounded on the glass. “I’m sorry! I’m scared of heights! I hate spiders! Julia wants a pizza!”

Julia pinched his leg. “Don’t show weakness.”

From beyond the sliding glass door a low voice hissed, “I know. I already ordered it. The Super Combo Deluxe. Now, grovel.”

Grady fell to his knees facing the door. “I’m super sorry. I really hate spiders. Julia’s pinching me.”

“She can be a bully. Pinch her back. Go ahead. I’m watching.”

Grady pinched her back. Julia swatted him.

Click. The sliding glass door magically unlocked and opened a crack.

Grady vaulted inside.

Julia clutched her stomach and giggled uncontrollably on the patio.

Annie slammed the door shut, again.

“Oh come on!” Julia said.

“Pizza’s not here for forty minutes,” Annie said. “Enough time for you to remember why no one likes a bully.”

“You’re going all Lutheran on me, mother.”

“I meant an hour.” Annie shut the blinds.

Safely back inside the apartment, Grady tried to redeem himself by tackling the bookshelves. Annie winced as she spotted him tossing books into two piles. “Sweetie, be careful with the books. I love my books.”

“Right. I think I know, but recap, please. Whose are whose?”

“All cooking and bakery related, mine,” Annie said. Behind his back she grabbed the Xanax bottle, popped a pill and hid the bottle in her recyclable bin. She knew Julia and Grady would try and steal her new prescription drugs. At least good friends were somewhat predictable. “Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys, murder mysteries, mine,” she rattled off. “Acting, producing, directing. Being all that you can be. Losing accents. Developing accents. The Artist’s Way. The Artist’s Journey. The Artist’s Journey to the Way. Hollywood: Why are they mean to me? What if Hollywood doesn’t call back? Why wait? You call Hollywood! Those would be Mike’s.”

“Okay.” Grady placed Annie’s books in boxes marked HERS. Tossed the rest into boxes marked DICK inscribed over a simple drawing of a frowny face.

The phone rang in the kitchen. Annie sucked on her Bombshell, checked caller ID and hit speaker. “Yeah Mom, hey there, you already know all the news. We’re packing, I love you, let’s talk in the next couple of days ’kay?”

Nancy’s voice pealed through the speakerphone like church bells at a double funeral,   “Annie, I’m worried about you. I called the entire family and everyone is on your side.”

She winced. “I told you not to tell anyone, Mom. I’m not ready for explanations.”

Nancy rolled along like an SUV doing ninety that just plowed over a squirrel. “I want you to call me immediately when you figure out who’s the little slut in the photos with Mike. And, FBI, everyone I talked to thought Mike was just a little too good to be true. Aunt Susan thinks he might be in a cult. I know you and your brother Carson have your differences, but if you asked him really nice and all, I betcha he’d give Mike a really bad chiropractic adjustment, if you know what I mean. And I just realized I saw a show on Oprah about this mess. Men who are married, but secretively are on the upswing.”

“Down low, Mom. Those men are on the down low.”

An ominous pause. “Carson owns guns. Lots and lots of guns.”

“Thanks Mom. It’s not FBI, Mom. It’s FYI. Love ya. Got. To. Go.” Annie punched the hang up button.

Grady looked concerned and asked the obvious, “Is your mom early Alz – ”

“No.”

He cleared his throat. “Senile?”

“No.”

Julia chimed in, “High school, freshman year. We’d just moved to Wisconsin from Georgia. I thought I’d landed in hell frozen over, until I met Annie in drama class and we started hanging. The accident was that December. Before the prison tattoo incident.”

“Accident?” Grady asked.

“Well, of course it was an accident,” Julia snapped.

Annie sighed. Looked at the vodka. “Maybe I need more to drink.”

“It was only partially your fault,” Julia said. “You need to let that one go.”

“Partially? What accident? Prison tattoos? Are you holding out on me?” Grady asked.

The Bombshell

Category: Ice Cream Dessert Drink with Alcohol.

Ingredients & Directions: Vanilla ice cream, crème de cocoa (a shot), Kahlua (to taste), vodka (be liberal), chopped Oreo cookies.

Appropriate Occasions: Filing marital separation papers. Finding a new apartment in one day. Packing to move in one night. Realizing current marital hopes and dreams have been stomped on, kicked around, and thrown off a very high cliff.

Best Served With: The nicotine patch. Legal drugs. Illegal drugs. Good friends.

THREE

The Sliding Toboggan

Derrick held one hand over his heart and strode across the stage, his other arm straight and aimed like a gun at the audience. “I promise…” He pointed at a lacquer-haired, late sixties woman who jumped up and down, and screamed excitedly. “You – Mrs. Family Values – Bootsy Bauerfeld! How’s that diet coming along?”

Bootsy screamed, “I lost five pounds!”

Derrick winked at her. “You’ll lose all the weight, Bootsy. I lost thirty pounds without dieting. My I Promise method will show you how,” he said.

And keep jumping, he thought. Jumping burned about 500 calories per hour. Screaming wasn’t as aerobic, but arm flailing might bump it up another 100 cals.

Derrick turned, scoped the crowd, and pointed to a woman wearing glasses. She looked like she’d spent her entire life with her head in an algebra book. “I promise you, Ms. Studiously Sexy, that you will find your soul mate. I did. Once I set my intention according to my I Promise method.”

Ms. Studiously Sexy regarded Derrick. “I’m thirty-seven. Hasn’t happened yet.”

“Aah. You doubt,” Derrick said. He loved the doubters. The D-Peeps were at every teaser speech and practically sold his seminars for him. “Follow my program. E-mail me in six months. You’ll be dating a great guy.”

“I’m not desperate and refuse to settle for table scraps,” Studiously Sexy said.

Even better, Derrick thought. A feisty D-Peep.

“I don’t just want a guy. I want the right partner, and I want a family. I want kids.”

“In a year, you and your perfect mate will be looking at rings and baby clothes. If this hasn’t happened, I will not only refund your money, I will personally sign you up and pay for a year subscription to E-HappyCouples.com.”

The audience applauded reverently, which crescendoed to thunderous, if the auditorium was indeed, filled.

Derrick paced the stage like a magnificent jungle cat in the wild stalking his inferior prey. “I promise, you are the creator of our destiny. You attract people, money, and every aspect of your life according to your thoughts and feelings. And I promise…”

He paused dramatically, and gazed out at the audience. They were enthralled. He had them. He knew it.

“I can teach you how to completely transform your life with the power of… your intention.” He beamed at his audience, feeling Messiah-like. Some might even say Tom Cruise-like. God, he was good.

“You can teach me nothing! Bullshit, squat, Dr. Derrick Fuller!” An angry middle-aged male heckler jumped up from his seat close to the stage and shook his fist. “You’re a money-grubbing, charlatan who sucks the life blood out of normal people with normal dreams! Your books should scrape runny dog crap off sidewalks! How dare you, Dr. Fuller, promise these good people that you’d take out their trash, let alone fulfill their dreams?”

Derrick looked out at his audience, his flock. They went from spirited to silent in a heartbeat. Some fidgeted. Some squeezed their foreheads into frowns that Derrick knew would never disfigure his handsome face. Bootsy gasped.

Derrick glanced around the very empty, almost lonely stage. He wasn’t used to foul-mouthed criticism from his adoring audiences. So, he frowned. He knew the Bo-tox had frozen his frown muscles. And that combo created a look of sincere and heartfelt contemplation. He worked that look for several seconds until his audience, leaned forward, googly-eyed and holding their breath. They looked like they might explode with anticipation. He turned to the heckler, who was bright red and breathing heavily. Christ, with any luck, this idiot might explode as well.

“What’s your name, sir?” Derrick asked.

“Doesn’t matter. What’s important is my daughter’s name. Sienna.”

Derrick’s stomach dropped and his pulse raced. He hoped this wasn’t about the time he was majorly hopped on shrooms and unfortunately shtooped a minor. She said she was twenty-one. Come on, was that his fault forever? He had paid hush money through the nose on that one, as well as the other three. All right, four. The confidentiality agreements were safely stored in his safety deposit box.

“Tell me about Sienna.”

Big fat sweat drops fell off the heckler’s face and saturated his shirt. “Sienna was beautiful, twenty years old and innocent. Straight A student, English major at SMC. She was accepted into UCLA on a partial scholarship,” he said. “Until she bought your books and your feel-good, hokey-pokey bullshit convinced her that you’d help her real dreams come true. Sienna deferred her scholarship. Took more dance classes.”

Derrick felt his blood pressure ease back towards normal. This was cake. Some sweaty bumfuck from county loser was no match for Dr. Derrick Fuller. “Tell me more, sir. I really want to know how you feel,” Derrick said. He looked at his audience. They were enthralled. Unbelievable. Lambs to the slaughter. Lemmings jumping off the cliff. It was so predictable. “Let me re-phrase that, sir. We want to know how you feel?”

The audience murmured and a few applauded.

“How do I feel? You don’t know my name, but you want to know how I feel? Did you care or even ask how my daughter felt?”

“Yes, sir. I assure you I did. Every dream in every life is important. My wish for this planet is that more people realize that, and act according to that principle,” Derrick said. “I don’t know dancing statistics. Educate us all please. We are strong when we are community.”

“There’s not a huge market for legitimate dancers in Los Angeles. But maybe you felt that already,” the Heckler said and wiped his dripping forehead with the edge of his shirt. “Sienna went to work at a Turkish restaurant in the Valley as a belly dancer. She was approached by a ‘producer’ guy who said she was talented, had great moves and would she like to be in an independent feature? Sienna was ecstatic and said yes. Four months later, a little movie was released straight to DVD starring my baby girl. It was entitled Bellywood. What do you think that little gem was rated?”

Derrick walked across the stage and paused across from the Heckler. “Sir. We know your daughter’s name. When we talk to Sienna, she’s going to want to hear her dad’s name. So shake my hand, sir, and tell me your name.” One of Derrick’s hands rested on his heart. He reached his other hand out to the heckler. Very few people could resist Derrick’s oh-so-welcoming out-stretched olive branch hand.

“My name is Bill,” the Heckler said, his hand glued to his side.

Derrick’s out-stretched hand dropped gently. He smiled. “Bill we’ll work together, set our intention. We’ll find Sienna and change her course. It’s the power of I promise. Let’s talk about it. Please join me on stage, Bill.”

“That’s exactly what you said to my daughter last year. ‘Would you like to join me on stage, Sienna?’ That was the moment we lost her,” Bill said. He pulled a gun from his jacket and pointed it at Derrick.

The audience gasped and screamed. Men and women bolted towards the exit doors. A handful of entrepreneurial souls dove to the floor, ducked behind chairs, and held up their video cells to record for E-Report.

Derrick slowly backed away. A furrow the size of a sliver materialized between his eyebrows. “But, Bill. It’s not your fault.”

Bill’s hand that held the gun shook.

It appeared he aimed for Derrick’s heart, but the shaking severely affected his gun-focusing. “That’s right, you fraud,” Bill said. “It’s definitely yours.”

Annie wrapped her and Mike’s wedding china in bubble-wrap. Placed the china into sturdy boxes labeled, “Kitchen, China”. She felt nauseous.

Julia and Grady sat on the kitchen floor and shoveled down pizza. “Okay, give on the only-partially-your-fault Nancy accident,” Grady demanded as he picked off the anchovies and confined them to a small section of his paper plate.

Annie held out a big wide sheet of bubble wrap and waved it in front of Grady. “When applied in a precise manner, this can kill a man far more quickly than a gun that has been improperly aimed.”

“Oh, stop it with the bubble wrap threat. You’re not Annie-tonio the Chinaman Packer,” Julia said and shoved another piece of pizza in her mouth.

Annie glared at her. “That is not suburban legend. My family’s connected, if you know what I mean. I’m just not allowed to talk about it.”

“Tell him, or I will,” Julia said.

“It was my Major Life Debacle Number Four. I generally don’t share them. I was fourteen. The Oconomowoc Interdenominational Faith Council decided to hold their first ever Christmas Carnival. They had food and games and contests. There was a Build a Baby Jesus tent, and an Ask the Holy Ghost booth,” Annie said.

“Ooh, that was my favorite,” Julia said. “We all jammed in, stuck a dime in the slot and the curtain opened. The Holy Ghost flapped his white robe and said in a spooky voice, ‘What is your holy question?’ Mine was, ‘Will I marry Tommy Thompson even though he’s a junior and has a girlfriend?’ The Holy Ghost said, ‘Highly unlikely. Pray about it.’ It was eerie. I never did marry Tommy Thompson.”

“Back to the Debacle,” Grady said and scarfed more pizza.

“My mom’s a teetotaler,” Annie said. “She just wanted to sit on the sidelines, like always, and sip her hot chocolate. But I was a high school freshman and I wanted a hipper, more rad mom. So, I spiked her hot chocolate with a little vodka.”

“A little? It was half a fifth. She drank the whole thermos, remember?”

“And why do you think I cannot let this one go, Julia?”

“So, Nancy, fueled by a vat of alcohol and encouragement from her entire extended family, signed up for lead sledder on the Bethel Lutheran Toboggan Team,” Julia said. “It was the Christ Child race-off, the last run of the day, winner take all.”

“ I hopped on behind her. I was her wingman. When the toboggan stopped, Mom and I  didn’t,” Annie said. “We both hit our heads pretty hard. She still blames the Catholics, thinks they sabotaged the run. Hence the oh so tiny bit of brain damage that led to Mom’s malapropisms.”

“As well as your weirdo psychic empathic ability,” Julia said. “You face plowed into a snow bank, Rosebud. I slid down the hill and ran to you. You were out, cold. I sat in the snow next to you, completely freaked out and held your hand for one very long minute before you came to.”

“Thanks. I’m Whitney and I will always love you. But, it was no fun coming to, feeling someone jamming their tongue down my throat,” Annie said.

“That was your first empathic hit,” Julia said. “You were picking up on the fact that Greg Finklestein french kissed me just minutes earlier.”

“How big was Finklestein’s tongue?”

“Oh. This all finally makes sense,” Grady said.

“Whatever, Mister. This info goes to your grave.” Annie said.

“Sure. Just don’t lock me on the balcony anymore.” he nodded.

“Maybe I should move back to Oconomowoc,” Annie said. “Minus forty plus wind chill here I come. I’ll open a granola store. I’ll become asexual. I’ll wear Birkenstocks with wool socks made from free-range sheep. I won’t have a boyfriend for five years, since after Mike I won’t trust men anymore.

“I think that after right now, there is no Mike Piccolino,” Grady said. “There was a complete jerk you used to be involved with whose claim to fame was one national Family Values pickle commercial, but he is history.”

Julia chimed in, “Pickles. You should definitely call him Pickles. At least until you figure out if you want a divorce.”

Annie frowned. “I can’t deal with the D word tonight.”

Grady raised his Bombshell. “Come on. A toast. To Pickles, formerly known as Mike. May he rest in peace.” Grady and Julia toasted and slugged their Bombshells.

Annie slurped the remaining contents from the bottom of her mug. “Oh, I wouldn’t say, rest in peace. No. I’d say, ‘To Pickles. May he end up sliced, diced and smothered in ketchup under a stale bun on top of a burger made from a very old, stringy, depressed cow. Then whoever ordered that burger hates pickles and not only pushes him to the side, but dumps him into that germ infested trash bucket outside the Grade C fast food place in a skivvy part of town.’ Hah! Much better toast.”

“Glad you don’t hold grudges for very long,” Grady said and shivered.

Julia shook her head, “You don’t know the name of this stadium, honey, let alone the game that’s played in it. Watch, takes notes and learn.”

Teddy the cat launched from a pile of books and landed on Grady’s head. He hollered and tried to grab him. Unfortunately, this only scared Teddy who instinctively dug his claws further into Grady’s scalp before he pivoted and catapulted into a box. He clutched his head and grimaced as a trickle of blood seeped down his forehead. “I might need antibiotics.”

Annie grabbed a spatula and shook it at Teddy. “Theodore von Pumpernickel! Stop scaring the humans. Now!”

Teddy glowered, raced off and disappeared into the nearest closet.

Annie poured vodka on a paper towel and dabbed Grady’s punctured head. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Cats are super sensitive. Teddy picks up on the emotional landscape and right now he’s freaked. Which does not excuse his behavior, or my responsibility. Anything you need, it’s my dime.”

“Which, if you get divorced, is basically all you’ll have,” Julia said and gathered the fallen books.

“Does Mike even know you filed for separation?” Grady asked.

“Oh, he knows. I had my attorney call him. Mike argued. Said we needed to talk. He’ll be served in the next couple of days. By then I’ll be safely moved into my new apartment with my new cell phone with its ultra secret phone number.” She rubbed her head. “Shit, it all happened so quickly, I can’t quite remember exactly where I’m moving.”

“You’re moving to the ’hood,” Julia said. “I saw the flier in your purse. Great kitchen. But you’re in the ’hood. Welcome to Crack-Ville.”

“I know why I’m bitchy. Why are you so crabby, tonight?” Annie glared at Julia.

“I’m having a problem with your choice in legal representation.”

“No, Julia,” Annie said. “You’re having a problem with me.”

“I’m a lawyer,” Julia said. “You walked out of Dr. Terrible’s office and tripped into the first door you saw that had Family Law stenciled on it. What were you thinking?”

“That you’d spend hours trying to ensure every document was filled out perfectly and then forget to charge me. You just passed the bar. This is your time to build a practice.”

“I’m a public defender. I work with the poor. I am the poor.”

“It’s a start. Pay off the mind-boggling student loan you took out when you quit the safe teaching job, and went to law school. I picked a different lawyer because I love you,” she said, put her arms around Julia and hugged her tight. A couple of tears trickled down their cheeks.

Grady sniffled in the background.

“Besides, you know me and my family,” Annie said. “Somewhere down the line, someone will snap and then need a lawyer for something – well – more important.” She slapped Julia on the back. “I’d like to save you, Missy Big Guns, for the important battles.”

“Like what?” Julia asked. “What’s bigger than your beloved Mike exchanging spit with someone who isn’t, you?”

Annie thought, and in that moment her attention was drawn to a live feed playing on the TV. Chaotic cell phone images of a metro guy on a stage backing up. Another guy in the audience section of a ballroom held a very shaky gun pointed at the guy on stage. The ticker that ran on the bottom of the screen read HOSTAGE CRISIS AT…

“Something like that,” she said, pointing.

“Yay! I love this stuff!” Grady exclaimed. “Need to turn up the volume. Where’s the remote?”

Bill the heckler aimed his gun at Derrick’s innards and wiped the sweat from his dripping brow. “I never meant it to come to this. I called your manager, Dr. Fuller. I called your publisher. Your editor. I e-mailed your website.”

Derrick slowly edged backwards towards the stage curtain. “No phone calls from you, Bill. No e-mails. Nothing from my agent, manager, or editor.”

“My wife and I talked to the police, multiple times,” Bill said. “We took out a second on our house, cashed in IRAs and hired a P.I. to find Sienna. No one got back to us. Ever. Not one single person got back to us. How can your own flesh and blood disappear, and not one single person takes the time to call you back?”

“The police never contacted me, Bill. Neither did any private investigators. Think about this, sir. It’s the power of intention, sir.” Derrick said.

Grady sat cross-legged, leaning forward eyes wide, three feet from the TV, trained on the hostage crisis playing out.

Julia was absorbed in a book jacket on Annie’s living room floor.

“What are you looking at?” Annie asked as she pulled some cupcakes out of the oven.

“Dr. Derrick Fuller, author of the book I Promise- You’re a Winner! He’s cute, a little dorky. He looks familiar,” Julia said and flipped through the book pile – ten books all with titles that started with, I Promise. Each featured a different action shots of Derrick Fuller, aka, Double O Dare. She leaned in and examined one of the jackets a little closer.

“Annie, you’re constantly picking up on what people are feeling. How come this Mike-on-the-down-low shit, blind-sided you?” Grady asked without taking his eyes off the TV.

Annie rubbed her eyes. “Because I just don’t know, everything.”

“Annie’s empathy works with other people, but it’s almost impossible for her to do it when it’s too close to her own life,” Julia replied. “Kind of like a surgeon who can’t operate on family members.”

Julia held up an I Promise book. “Are these yours?”

“Despite appearances, I have not had a lobotomy. Shit no, I would never buy that crap,” Annie said. “They’re Mike’s.”

Julia looked at the book cover and shook her head. “Hey, Grady. Pass the… educational thingie,” she said and pointed to the envelope that contained Mike’s photos.

He tossed it over and remained riveted to the reporter blabbing excitedly on the TV. “Anchor Carlie Causey from WNLA in Los Angeles with breaking up-to-the-minute news. Frank, disturbing images being sent to WNLA from an E-Reporter indicate a possible hostage/shooting situation at the LAX Hotel and Suites. We caution you to view at your discretion as the events might contain graphic violence.”

Julia pulled the photos from the envelope. Flipped through them. Looked at the book. Eyed Derrick Fuller’s picture on the book jacket. She gagged, shoved the photos back in the envelope, and fanned herself with them. “Grady?”

“Not now,” Grady said and waved her off.

“Here’s what we know so far,” Carlie continued. “A simple Learning Annex seminar appears to be the location for tonight’s latest real-life show of violence. Dr. Derrick Fuller, best-selling author of the I Promise self-help book series was here tonight, giving an inspirational lecture.” The TV news flashed a picture of one of Derrick’s book jackets, and then went back to coverage. “Things seemed to have gone terribly wrong…”

Grady sat up very straight. “Shit. Julia. Pass me back that… educational thingie. Please.”

Julia scooted next to him and mouthed, “It’s him!”

Grady ripped out the pictures and held up one up next to the TV screen. His eyes grew huge. “Dear lordie. It’s him.”

“Him who?” Annie said as she banged around in the kitchen.

“Nobody!” Julia and Grady shouted in unison. Grady shoved the photo back into the envelope.

Annie turned and stared at the TV. “Hey. Why’s that guy on the stage look familiar?”

“I don’t have a clue as to what you are talking about.” Julia said. “I think you’re more than a little tipsy and hallucinating. Grady, change the channel to Dancing With The Stars.”

Annie frowned as they watched the guy on stage back up. “No, don’t. I’ve definitely seen that man before.”

Derrick turned and bolted for the stage curtain. Bill the heckler jumped, tripped and fell. His gun fired somewhere in the vicinity of the stage. Derrick screamed as he fell to the floor.

An athletic guy with a camera vaulted over several chairs and tackled Bill. The gun dislodged and skated across the floor away from their reach.

Going down, Bill cried, “I didn’t mean to shoot!  It’s not even my gun!”

Onstage, Derrick crawled towards the curtain and collapsed. A smudge of fresh red blood lay on the floor next to him. Sirens rang in the near distance. Derrick couldn’t even muster a frown as he moaned, “I always thought it would be light. But it’s dark. It’s so dark.”

The Sliding Toboggan

Category: Hot chocolate with alcohol.

Ingredients: Warm fresh 2% milk slowly in small saucepan. Gently stir in cocoa. Add sugar to taste. Pour into thermos. (Leave enough room to spike with vodka to top of thermos line.) Stir thoroughly. Sprinkle marshmallows (miniature seem to work best) on top of liquid concoction. Screw on thermos top.

Appropriate Occasions: Teenage angst. Wishing one’s parent was more radical. Unconscious need to add to Major Life Debacles’ list.

Best Served With: Teenage delusions. When no one got tipsy on the punch at the family Easter party – Summer Bible Camp – five days a week, ten hours a day for ten weeks.

FOUR

Hussy Sucks

Only in L.A. would the guy in a shoot-out aired on TV be the hussy sucking on his friend’s husband’s face in revealing photos. Grady shook his head in disbelief as he compared the saucy Mike glossies to the book jackets, and back to the ongoing unrelenting TV coverage of the shooting of Dr. Derrick Fuller. Apparently the shooter had been restrained and Fuller was hospitalized, no medical update released yet.

Julia grabbed his ear and whispered into it, “Who do you think sent her the photos?”

“Ow. Someone trying to be helpful.”

“It wasn’t me,” she said, and her eyes narrowed.

He caught the look. “Don’t you give me suspicious lawyer eyes. In the long run, whoever it was did her a favor.”

Julia nodded. “Should we tell her tonight?”

“Tough call.” Grady grabbed a pad of paper and started making notes.

“Rock the boat. Don’t tip the boat over. Rock the boat. Oooh. Wa Waaaah…” Annie disco danced through her kitchen holding a popsicle that doubled as a microphone.

Grady watched her, turned and looked at the sliding glass doors. They were fifteen floors up from the warm hard concrete ground where Prada paraded and parasites puked. That would so not be a good landing. “Does Annie still sleepwalk?”

“Only when she’s super stressed and drunk.”

“You know, I live in a first floor unit,” he said.

Julia shook her head, “She’d throw up in your car.”

“Your car. My car is new.”

“No-no. I just had my car detailed. What if we tell her tomorrow? Is that being a bad friend?” she asked and pushed back tears.

“I think that would be a very good friend, kind of thing. We could barricade the balcony door and tuck her in safely.”

The most interior part of Annie and Mike’s apartment housed a small laundry room. It had no windows, balconies, or ledges. But it did feature a washer and dryer as well as Out-Doors Fresh All Natural detergent and fabric softener perched on a shelf on the wall. The floor was filled with a ton of blankets and pillows. Grady gently lowered Raggedy Annie onto the fluffy makeshift floor bed. “Nighty night, pumpkin.”

Julia, a stern look on her face, covered her with a comforter and neatly tucked her in with hospital corners.

Righteously drunk and legally drugged, Annie laid on her back on the floor, next to the washer and dryer. She kicked open the hospital corners, inhaled deeply and smiled. “Smell mountain air – bitchin’! Yeah there! Skiing tomorrow.”

Julia’s stern look melted. “No skiing, sweetie. We figured out whom Mike was involved with. His name is Dr. Derrick Fuller.”

Grady pinched Julia’s arm. She swatted him back. “I thought we weren’t going to tell her tonight?”

“She won’t remember.”

“Oh, so you’re covering your best-friend ass?”

“No. I’m a lawyer. I, have ethics. By the way, you call her Mom and tell her we figured out Mike’s slut is the über popular, Dr. Derrick Fuller.”

“Why don’t you call her?” Grady asked.

“For some reason Nancy thinks I’m a bit of a tulip,” Julia said.

“Trollop,” he replied.

Teddy strutted into the room, regarded Annie on the floor and on his level. He circled, laid down and snuggled his hairy behind next to her face.

“Black diamond run. I’ll beat you to the bottom. Hah hah!” Annie giggled.

“Annie,” Julia said. “Dr. Fuller’s the best-selling author of the I Promise book series. Sadly, someone shot him tonight. So between your move and the marital separation shit, tomorrow’s going to be a big day for you. I had to tell you tonight, ’cause even though you might try to demote me, I’m still your best friend.”

“I’m a best friend, too.” Grady slapped a new nicotine patch on Annie’s arm.

Annie smiled. “Hot chocolate, marshmallows. My sec ingreeee-di - yum!” she mumbled, flipped onto her stomach. Her head dropped and she snored.

The late morning sun burnt through the remnants of L.A. beach fog and illuminated a large two story modern McMansion. Dr. Derrick Fuller’s estate was landscaped to the elevens. Whatever was in style, it was here. Statues of Buddhas, multiple Jesuses, specifically the older version where Mr. God, Jr. was art on a cross, peeked through every corner of the estate. Tall expensive trees rimmed the property’s perimeter. Exquisite Mediterranean tiles and flowing fountains complemented views of the house and the Santa Monica Mountains in the near distance. All these treasures surrounded the crown jewel: the infinity pool that faced the Pacific Ocean with a view that made an asthmatic grasp his inhaler.

God, it’s good to be alive, thought Derrick as he surveyed his celebrity compound. He laid on his stomach on a cushy chaise lounge facing his pool. He was naked except for his silver metallic Pucci thong and a small gauze band-aid taped to the middle of his right derriere. He talked quietly into his cell. “No, silly. Could have been more serious but I got lucky. Top of the line surgeons. Maybe I need a little more of your very special medical TLC when I’m out of the woods. Mmm. Would you wear the outfit? Of course I remember. I promised you. No, I don’t forget my promises–” BEEP!

Call Annoying. Derrick checked the incoming number and sighed. “I’ll call you back. I promise. No. I promise,” he said but the whining continued over the phone. “That other time doesn’t count.” More whining. He sighed again. He’d just been shot. Could he catch a break? “No. That doesn’t count either because I left the country for an emergency meeting with a volatile Middle Eastern politician who needed urgent advice. I’ll call you back.”

He clicked over. “Yes, Barry I got your get well basket. Thank you. Loved the …” Derrick thought for a milli-second. What was always in those gourmet baskets? “Chocolate covered strawberries. Oh, from Country March Deli. That’s right. Awesome choice. You rock. Did Madison Morgan call you? He will. No, I didn’t get the other package you sent.”

Derrick’s short middle-aged uniformed maid walked slowly towards him, carrying a small tray that held one tall drink. She quietly placed the fancy fruity libation on the tiny table next to him.

Loud squawking emanated from the phone and Derrick held it far away from his ear. He whispered, “Thanks, Theresita. A little snack for this hacienda’s head honcho, per favore. Ooh, one of those scrumptious cupcakes I love.”

The maid sighed and looked at her feet. “Si¢, Dr. Fuller. But I am not Theresita. I work for you for five years now. Remember? My name is Concha.”

“Yes, Consuela. Grazie.” Derrick gave her a big thumbs up.

Concha sighed and trudged back towards the house.

“I know the last two books didn’t meet your expectations, Barry.” Derrick turned and stared over his shoulder at the small bandage on his butt. Itchy! He reached, tried to scratch it, but his hand and butt couldn’t quite connect. “Yes, I know sales dropped a little. And seminar numbers went down.” The blabbing on the other end of the phone grew louder. God, his butt cheek felt like monster mosquitoes sucked on it. “No, not like the Titanic. Frankly, Barry, losing it only makes you a loser,” he said, grabbed the straw from his fruity drink, reached back and hello, made contact. He scratched up and down, back and forth. Aah, a little slice of heaven.

He smiled, relieved. Because now, there was just one more ass to wipe. “You will always have a special place in my heart, Barry Cooperman. But Madison Morgan’s the right manager for me to grow with, for now. I believe our relationship, Barry, has run its course. I will cherish you, always. Ciao-Ciao.” He clicked off and punched the appropriate numbers to block Barry from calling him ever again.

A MasterCard bounced off his good butt cheek, sailed through the air and landed in the pool. He winced and yelped.

A husky female voice asked, “But Derrick, will you always cherish me?”

Derrick reached for his cocktail and took a long sip before answering. “You know I had a rough time last night, Tawny. Why’d you do that?”

“Because, Derrick, I’m your wife.” Tawny Fuller leaned her hand on her perfect boney hip and struck a pose. An irritated pose. She was tall, surgically enhanced, and boasted lioness hair with six hundred dollar three process highlights. She was thirty-five for-everrrr and a former BeachWatch TV babe. Posters of Tawny in her almost sprayed-on BeachWatch bathing suit were tacked and taped and repeatedly diddled on in teenage boys’ rooms all over the globe.

“I’m your wife and I deserve more respect than your mistresses, female or male.”

Derrick coughed. Winced when that pulled on his stitch. He spotted Consuela-Theresita trudging towards him carrying a tray of food. Relief in sight? He knew she didn’t approve of Tawny. He’d overheard her muttering “Puto,” on several occasions. He knew enough Spanish to know what that meant. Maybe it was time to give her a raise.

Tawny kneeled next to the chaise. “Baby, we need to talk,” she said and ran her long perfectly manicured acrylic nails down his back. Derrick’s skin immediately sprouted goose bumps. “My friends and I went shopping today. They bought me two outfits at Fred Segal’s. So naturally, I offered to pick up lunch. But I didn’t.” She stopped scratching inches above his butt bandage like the high school make-out tease before the happy ending. “Ask me why.”

Derrick shivered and his right leg twitched. “Why?”

“Because our MasterCard was declined.”

“Therefore, because every problem is an opportunity, you, my very smart wife, used the Visa,” Derrick said. Thought for a moment. “Be my sunshine girl and scratch a little lower?”

Tawny scratched Derrick’s butt directly above his bandage. A millimeter from where he wanted it. “I’ve been scratching lower for quite a long time now, Derrick. Our Visa opportunity was declined as well. My friends felt sorry for me. I felt embarrassed and, I must admit, a little pissed. I wondered if you cut up a credit card into a million pieces, loaded those pieces into a gun, and fired them? Would the effect be like buckshot? Or do you think those million little fragments could actually take someone out?”

The look on Tawny’s face convinced Derrick she wasn’t just postulating, but downright considering. Maybe even plotting. Damn, he hoped his pre-nup was solid. Derrick glanced desperately over his shoulder. “Concha!” he hollered.

Tawny stalked back towards the McMansion as Concha placed a plate with an enormous cupcake on the tiny table next to his almost emptied drink.

Derrick called after Tawny, “Honey, I promise you, everything’s fine. We’ll figure it all out. Mr. MasterCard and Ms. Visa will still be your friends.”

Tawny didn’t turn around, let alone miss a step, as she flipped Derrick her French manicured middle finger.

Derrick picked up the cupcake and peeled back the saran wrap with the sticker that read, “Piccolino’s Pastries.” He bit into it, and damn, it was good. He smiled at his maid. “Thanks, Concha. Why does the name, Piccolino, sound so familiar?” he asked and scarfed down the cupcake. “Mmm. Juicy. Love the sprinkles. I detect a whiff of almonds. Odd ingredient for a devil’s food chocolate cupcake, but I do believe this Piccolino baker is not scared to challenge convention. Go against the grain. Be a risk-taker!” Derrick finished the cupcake. “I like risk-takers. They are so I Promise people.”

Concha nodded.

“Do we have any more of these delicious confections?”

“Si¢, Dr. Fuller,” Concha said and trotted off towards the McMansion.

“And, another drink, please. Grazie.” Derrick sighed, burped, and uh-oh, passed a little gas. He really needed to apply more sunscreen to his back and butt. He’d ask Concha to do it when she returned with his drink. Right now he’d work on his tan and brainstorm the title for his next series. Very exciting - his first book in the new series already had a fourth draft completed and sat with his editor. So, take a leap, Barry. Divorce me, Tawny. Shoot me, wacko. And the fifty plus other people who hated him – whatever. His new book and seminar series were in the delivery room and smoking, baby. This would put him back on first base, right where he belonged.

All he needed to move on from his I Promise series was a catchy title. He liked The Secret. But that was taken. He was drawn to Intoxicating: You are so… just fill in the word to apply to the book. It was brilliant. Like, Intoxicating: You are so Marriage Material! How commercial was that?

Suddenly, he felt exhausted. He broke into a sweat, looked at his hands and realized they were twitching. Stress. Last night was one of the few times he was honest to somebody, scared. Being shot by the heckler unnerved him. He yawned. Man, he felt sleepy. Perfectly normal for what he’d been through. A measureable drop in energy usually followed high anxiety/adrenaline levels. He’d take a little nap and be back to his old self. Weathering life’s storms sometimes forced one to realize the reality of life. It was, for everyone, finite. But for him, right now, it was still sweet.

He settled in for a very relaxing, napping position. He scooched a little on his chaise lounge. Stretched. Sighed. Laid his head down. He took a deep breath, and…

Damn he had a crotch itch. He had few rules in life, but one was, never ignore a crotch itch. He snaked one hand under his pelvis, grabbed and scratched his goods. There. Much better. His other hand fell to the ground.

Derrick shuddered. And he died.

Annie gazed around at the snowy majestic mountains peppered with tall pine trees. Dressed in bitchin’ fashionable ski attire, she sported a huge fluffy fur scarf hanging around her neck. She perched tall on skis, on the tippy top of a very steep ski run. Mike stood next to her. He was athletic and handsome, looked like an ad for Nike, and chowed down on a pickle.

A big sign next to them featured an image of a lovely engagement ring with a substantial black shiny diamond as the center stone. The sign read, “BLACK DIAMOND RUN – Recommended for Experienced Skiers Only.”

Annie looked down at the daunting slope below, stuck out her stiff upper lip, tossed her furry scarf over her shoulder and declared, “Come on Mike, we can do this.”

“Oh, Annie, you know the drill. I have to meet a very rad director for a script that’s getting a lot of heat. I need this time to read,” he said, pulled a script out of his ski jacket, sat down in a snow bank and flipped through it.

She squinted towards the bottom of the run. “Oh, look. Is that Steven Spielberg eating a snow cone?” That got Mike’s attention. “See ya!” He was back up on his skis and right behind her as she vaulted off Black Diamond’s precipice and flew down the steep slope.

She hit a mogul. Totally maneuvered it. Down that hill she soared.

She hit another mogul, but never even broke stride, let alone a sweat. Bill Gates laid flat on his back on the hill but still managed to lift his head out of the snow. He looked pissed that she had not only shattered his expensive goggles, but left ski tracks on his face. “Hey! Annie Rose Graceland, you can’t just run over moguls and not take responsibility. I’m a good man. I contribute substantially to charity, you know.”

“Sorry! I’ll put a dime in that jar at the 7-11 and mention your name.”

“But… I have a foundation named after me!”

“I wear a dab of foundation almost every day, Mr. Gates. Coincidence? I think not,” she said, waved at him cheery, and continued down the run.

He blinked through his expensive broken goggles, and shook his fist at her.

She schussed and flew off every bump and edge, powder flying up behind her. At the bottom Annie realized that, holy shit, she’d mastered her first Black Diamond course.

Beautiful people in sexy ski gear, swimwear and cocktail attire clapped and cheered as she skied past them. She smiled and curtseyed. (How difficult was it to curtsey and ski at the same time?) One woman who looked suspiciously like her mother wore a placard around her neck that read, “Marry in Haste, Repent in Seizures.”

A hunky ski adonis yelled to her, “Annie Rose, you sexy thing. Be mine, Valentine!”

She waved back at Mr. Adonis, spit out a hunk of her fur scarf that the mountain air had blown into her mouth, “Thank you. I’m flattered. But as you can see, I’m already taken!” She reached for Mike’s arm, but the beautiful people screamed in horror. She turned and saw that the arm she held was bloody and not attached to a body. She frantically looked around for the rest of Mike, but the rest of Mike had disappeared.

“Mike? Mike?”

She glanced down and realized her fashionable ski attire had disintegrated during her run. She had skied down that black diamond slope in different stages of nakedness.

Now, she screamed. But the beautiful people had vanished and she was completely alone except for the bloody arm stump she held. Dammit. Another Major Life Debacle? How’d she end up here, again?

She sat upright on her laundry room floor. Teddy fell off her face and meandered away. She shook her head and spit out a couple of cat hairs. Bad, terrible friggin’ nightmare. She just had to admit she wasn’t much of a skier and never would be. Let that dream go. Big breath in. Big breath out. She recited her mantra for letting go, releasing. “I, Annie Rose Graceland, will never be a Black Diamond skier.” Closure. Phew. Great. Freedom.

But why, in that statement, had she forgotten her married name, Piccolino? And why was she clawing herself to standing on her washer and dryer in her laundry room? And what was up with the loud and unfamiliar voices as well as banging and clanking noises resounding inside her apartment?

She pushed her self to standing, and swayed. Whoa oh whoa, what was she doing last night, where was the Advil, her smokes, and Mike? She cracked the laundry room door open, and peered out. She saw three guys carting her furniture out of the front door on dollies. Huh? Had she scored a reality show home makeover and not been informed?

“Excuse me. Excuse me!” She teetered out of the laundry room. Recognized one young male Latino mover. She knew his name was Juan and he was the building manager’s twenty-something year old kid.

Juan paused and regarded Annie with a look that conveyed either fear or compassion.

“Juan, tell me it’s the House and Garden Network and that it’s big budget?”

“No, Señorita Anna Rosita. You call me yesterday and say, “Emergencia!” You need us mañana. To move you to nueva muy bonita casita en Playa del Venice.”

A whirlwind of sucky stuff flooded back: the bad trip to the Oby-Gyne, something crappy about Valentine’s Day and a disastrous ski trip. “Right.”

Juan handed her a stack of mail, including her daily L.A. Times newspaper. “Coffee – kitchen.”

“Smokes?”

He pointed to the patch on her arm. And shrugged.

She looked at her arm and frowned. “Gracias, Juan.”

She plodded into her kitchen. Squinted and noticed a piece of paper taped to her coffee machine. She leaned in, and read the note. She was so hung over the words actually swam a little. “Hit the ON button. Look next to the coffee machine. Love, Julia and Grady.” She hit the button on the coffee machine; it perked up immediately. Next to it was a huge empty coffee mug, a bottle of electrolyte water and a small china cup that held four Advil and a fresh nicotine patch. She smiled. She had good friends.

She popped the Advil, swigged them down with the water, ripped off the old nicotine patch and slapped a new one on her arm. She picked up today’s newspaper. February 15th, post Valentine’s Day massacre, thought Annie. Lower column had a headline, “Daring Shootout!” More like, boring. But the picture of the vic looked vaguely familiar. Yeah there, didn’t they all?

She poured herself a stiff cup of dark sludgy coffee, slugged back a couple of shots, dropped the paper and rifled through her mail. A coupon for five dollars off on her next Bed Bath and Beyond purchase. Opened an 8 X 10 envelope, pulled out her husband Mike’s make-out/boy toy pictures. Huh, oh yeah, thanks for the reminder. Cheater, wiener, dickwipe. She winced and stuffed the photos back in the envelope. Shook her head. Noticed her answering machine blinked sixteen new messages.

She had a feeling that yesterday would qualify as her Major Life Debacle # Twelve. There were strict rules and guidelines that needed to be met before a truly shitty event could even be considered a Major Life Debacle. She was pretty sure that yesterday’s scores would put her way past the official qualification requirements.

An I Promise book lay on the counter next to the electrolyte water. She picked up the book, flipped to the author’s blurb, squinted at the picture of Dr. Derrick Fuller. She vaguely remembered Julia weaving over her head like a platypus and saying, “We figured out whom Mike was involved with. His name is Dr. Derrick Fuller.” She looked at the Mike pictures again. Yeah there. Same guy. She felt the blood drain from her face. Juan walked past her, directing the movers in Spanish. “Señorita Annie. Esta¢ bien?”

Annie waved, smiled and replied, “Yes. Gracias.”

Juan smiled and gave her a thumbs up.

She gave him a thumbs up back, clutched her stomach, turned and hurled into the kitchen sink.

Damn. It was one thing to find out you were most likely not super fertile, but zoom zoom ahead, fast forward…. you’re in peri-menopause. Next, some self-righteous doctor and his idiot intern insist that you not only had to quit smoking (your almost favorite habit in the whole entire world), but then unceremoniously put you on the patch as well. Kick number three (not in emotional value, just time-wise), the horror of discovering your husband cheated on you, and on top of that, (figuratively not positionally), that he was doing it with a man.

Yesterday had been a really sucky day. Today wasn’t starting out very average, either. And she really didn’t see it getting better anytime soon.

Because Annie Rose couldn’t compete with that. She couldn’t grow a dick even if she tried. And, she liked being a girl. She knew in her bones, there was another nail that lurked nearby, whispering her name and hoping to be pounded into a coffin. Most likely hers. She didn’t quite know what that nail looked like, but had a strong feeling it was coming. Probably complete with its own hammer.

Concha walked up with another tray of snackies and noticed a crowd of crows circling over Dr. Derrick, as he lay prone, sound asleep, on his lounge chair facing his gorgeous crystal blue infinity pool. She quietly placed the tray, including more Piccolino’s Pastries cupcakes on the table next to the muy coiffed Doctore. He was already pink and definitely burning. She hesitated. Sighed. Then picked up the Clarins 60 SPF sunscreen tube, squeezed a little onto her hand and gently patted it onto Dr. Derrick’s back and tushie. He didn’t even flinch. Concha wiped her hands on her uniform and trudged off.

Hussy Sucks

Description: Frozen sorbet-like popsicles.

Appropriate Occasions: Identifying tramp who did you-know-what with possibly soon to be ex-spouse.

Best Served With: Infidelity. Exhaustion. Overwhelming need to suck on something, carrot sticks simply won’t do and nothing else appropriate is available.

FIVE

Crackville Cookies

It was a long day. The movers had come and gone. Now Annie wanted to see her first sunset in her new Venice neighborhood and her new apartment. The beach was so close and she needed to smell the salt air and soak it all in. Let her new life wash over her like a big cleansing wave. She stood across the street from her teensy new apartment and watched the beginning of a brilliant Pacific sunset.

The street was narrow. Cars of all varieties and monthly payments were parked in driveways and at the curbs. The buildings were residential: a mixture of rental bungalows, small two bedroom starter houses, a crack-ville dive, and the obligatory celebrity compound.

From the street, her new apartment was part of a string of 1950s miniscule bungalows, all connected and strung alongside each other on in a V formation. Her place was located in the narrow part of the V, in the back of the property and bordered on an alley. The front of her spiffy new singles’ complex sported a small patch of weathered grass, some saggy lawn chairs and a big tree growing in the middle of the V. Maybe she’d plant an herb garden here. Paint and plant a little sign that said “Victory Gardens.” Arrange some chicken wire around it with a few more friendly signs in front. “We want peace and we want it now!” “Impeach (insert name of politician you hate, here).” And, “We don’t poop on your poodle, please don’t pee on our peppermint.”

On the inside, Annie’s new living room was fifteen by twenty feet, and featured scuffed hardwoods, a couple of saggy windows, and the original 1950s metal floor heaters. Her living room also multi-tasked as a foyer, an office, entertainment complex, and a bedroom. Behind this multi-plex was a miniscule kitchen. It miraculously had tons of cabinets that surrounded a grandmother stove, a basic fridge, and a single sink. The kitchen led to a back door painted tangerine dream.

She opened the tangerine door, stepped outside and looked at her smallish bricked in patio covered in overgrown red, orange and blush bougainvilleas. It had a fire-pit and great potential for outdoor entertaining on a very small scale. It was perfect.

She burst into tears. Who was she kidding? It was perfect, pre-Mike, when she was younger, more daring and not fertility challenged. She’d signed up for marriage and babies, not divorce and anxiety attacks. She forgot to breathe and started to shake. She ran back inside her little place, popped a Xanax, and started to unpack. Hopefully, progressive movement would help.

Dr. Derrick Fuller woke up, yawned and stretched his arms. He noticed the sun had  dropped towards the horizon. He must have napped for hours and probably missed several appointments. What the hell. After all the stress he’d gone through, he deserved it. Several crows squawked at him, which reminded him he once boinked a girl who was 1/20th American Indian at a writing conference in Jersey. Based on his advice, Irene Fritzel changed her name to Little Feather and wrote a book about crows - shamanic animal messengers from the After-Life. God, those ugly birds were flying around, awfully close to him. Maybe they were going for the remnants of his snackies. He glanced about.

Approximately forty feet below him uniformed cops, paramedics and some hunky firemen gathered around the pool and walked the premises of his stunning compound. Concha and Tawny hovered in the background, backs towards each other. Per usual, Tawny was surrounded by men. She fluttered her eyes, licked her lips, touched her breasts unconsciously (in a conscious fashion), and conversed with some of LAPD’s finest in universal language.

Why were all these civil servants at his estate? It wasn’t his annual Halloween party. Derrick knew he was a good citizen. He paid his taxes, contributed to the Fireman’s Fund. (Oh, how he contributed.)

He winced as he watched Concha standing alone, biting her lip until it bled. What was wrong with her? A handsome late thirties Latino man with built shoulders, chest and arms that proved he spent time pumping more than beer bottles, jogged past Tawny up to Concha. He flashed a badge, kneeled down and held Concha’s hands as she sobbed real tears. His voice, sounding sincere, floated towards Derrick and he heard, “I’m sorry Señora. Calm. Calm. Can I call someone for you? You can tell me anything. My name is Detective Raphael Campillio. What’s yours?” Concha babbled in Spanish to the super hot Detective Raphael.

Something was definitely amiss in Derrick’s world.

A bird screamed, “CAW!” He startled and saw a crow perched next to him on a tree branch. “Oh sod off, you flying rat.” Wait, a tree branch? Derrick’s neck whiplashed side to side, back to front as he realized…

He was forty feet up in the air sitting on a branch in one of his tall fir trees. Huh? He looked down and spotted his doppelganger body, forty feet below him. That body was prone, laying on his chaise lounge, wearing his Pucci thong and very pink. That body was an imposter.

Derrick observed as one paramedic took the imposter’s pulse. The guy shook his head. The paramedic put a stethoscope to his fake twin’s carotid – no heartbeat. This sent Derrick’s mind spinning. No. Couldn’t be. Unless that cupcake was laced with acid and he was hallucinating. He generally didn’t like acid. He preferred X. Maybe Tawny was up to some cruel demented trick. Ah-hah! He knew it. She probably traded one of her newer girl-on-girl soft porn tapes to a couple of firemen in exchange for this mean practical joke. They had carried him, drugged and injured, up the tree with a tall ladder, and put a CPR dummy in his place on the chaise. Very funny Tawny! You won this round. But this wasn’t some stupid talking heads’ war that we shouldn’t be in baby, ’cause he had set a timetable to get out of this mess.

Then the paramedic, who examined the imposter’s body, shook his head, walked over to Tawny and said, “My condolences, Mrs. Fuller. Your husband has passed away.”

Up in the tree, Derrick practically passed out. Could Not Be!

Tawny burst into crocodile tears. Concha sobbed more real ones. Madison Morgan, his new manager, a handsome Armani-dressed thirty-something guy, burst onto the scene from the house. He hustled over to Tawny, put his arm around her shoulders and whispered into her ear. She paused for a second, the top of her highlighted head tipped towards Madison’s thick black mane of hair. Then, her overly dramatic crying jag started again.

Dr. Derrick Fuller couldn’t be dead. He was only fifty years old, enormously popular, in great shape and until now, possessed perfect health. But beautiful, perfect-looking people still got killed every day. Accidents. Jealously. Road rage. But if he was dead, then why was he still here watching cops and paramedics mingle around his McMansion, his McWife and his grief-stricken maid? Shouldn’t he have already passed to the After-Life? Was there a hold up in heaven? And if he was for sure, completely, utterly, done deal, no going back, warranty expired – dead – why was he still sitting in this damn tree?

Okay. He was smarter than 99% of the population. He could deal with this. Derrick watched as one cop cordoned his pool area with yellow police tape. Another cop examined the scene and gently placed evidence into official police plastic baggies and labeled them. Concha wrung her hands, wept and pointed to the Clarins sunscreen. That was quickly bagged, as well as all the food plates, and glasses. Another cop wearing tight blue gloves dusted for prints. Concha pointed to Derrick’s ass, and then to her right hand, and sobbed some more. The print guy grimaced and then dusted Concha’s hand and Derrick’s ass, too.

Derrick watched Madison hover next to Tawny while she held court at a lovely outdoor living set. A cop tried to question her. Tawny’s lower lip quivered and she wouldn’t articulate any coherent answers. Derrick smirked. Guess this wasn’t as fun as shopping at Fred Siegel’s. Tawny pulled herself together when a few more male firemen and paramedics walked over to her table. She sniffled and weakly signed a few autographs. The cop frowned and asked if Tawny would describe her marriage to Derrick as happy, or not so happy.

Madison answered for Tawny. “Talk to her attorney,” he said and led Tawny away from the veranda, back into the house, his arm around her impossibly tiny waist with two ribs surgically excised on each side.

Derrick believed in past and future-lives and all that gobbleddy-gook, but this wasn’t either. This was… he had no idea. Where was he? Good God. Was this Hell?

Annie glanced around her big room, saw floor to ceiling boxes and said to herself, “Breathe.” Moving mayhem. Some of the boxes were empty, others partially unpacked, but the majority were still closed. In their midst were her Italian grandmother’s desk, her dad’s hand carved wooden chest. Teddy hunkered down on her couch while he surveyed the room suspiciously. At the last minute, Annie realized her large bed would take up practically the entire room and that she hated what it represented. She told the mover boys to drop it at Good Will. She would sleep on her couch.

Gunshots rang outside. Teddy flinched. Annie didn’t. Could have been her brother Carson’s friends, back in Wisconsin who liked to shoot their guns for fun. They’d go out back and fire at beer cans and watermelons and pictures of whatever Green Bay Packer player screwed up last week’s game. All good clean-hearted Midwestern fun. Carson and his buds fired so many guns during her life, that now, gunshots simply sounded like popcorn.

However, when gunshots were followed by tire squeals and what sounded like two cars racing off, Annie was smart enough to duck. She watched enough episodes of Law & Order, every unit, to know that gunshots combined with tire squealing was not a good sign.

Juan had hooked up her DVD player to her TV. She didn’t have cable yet, but at least she could watch stuff while she unpacked. But out of the fifty plus boxes in the room, which one had the DVDs? She scoped and checked out twelve boxes ’till she found the one inscribed, “You are not allowed to watch romantic comedies. Love, Julia.”

She ripped off the packing tape. On top Julia had put yellow stickies, marked with hearts drawn around the word “Yes!” on her picks of safe things to watch. These included The Sound of Music – the Hallmark Channel remake, Bush/Cheney – The Last Days, and TV Bloopers! 1960’s. Oh goodie. Maybe Annie’s torture would end tonight as she’d die from boredom, thanks to Julia’s good intentions.

She tossed Julia’s selections and dug out some of her favorites. Sifted through them – forty percent thrillers, forty percent romances, ten percent balls-out comedies, five percent socially or politically relevant, and the rest whatever liberal, smart, cool people loved. She was beginning to think that she wasn’t a liberal, smart, cool person. She was probably a mixed, middling in the brains department, warm and occasionally, prickly person.

She grabbed the While You Were Sleeping disc and stuck it in the DVD player. Just a little mind candy while she got organized.

Derrick took a chance and jumped off the branch. Forty feet down, he landed in the pool. A small dent materialized in the water and gently rippled out toward the sides. He poked his still dry, albeit invisible head up from the pool water, and watched the techs as they squished his perfect dead body into a vinyl body bag. Vinyl. He hated vinyl. With all the taxes he paid, couldn’t they have popped for leather?

“Yikes,” Tech #1 said, a young, clean cut guy pointed to the ripples in the pool. “Look at that. Gives me the creeps. What do you think caused it?”

Tech #2, an older, heavier guy shrugged. “Probably a pine cone dropped from that tree. Or could have been a mild quake.”

“I’ve been on the job three months,” Tech #1 said. “This kind of stuff always gives me the jeevies. Makes me wonder about spirits and ghosts.”

“I’ve been pushing stiffs around for twelve years and I’ve never seen one damn ghost. I’ll guarantee it ain’t a damn ghost,” Tech #2 said and zipped Derrick’s body into the bag. Unfortunately, the zipper snagged part of Derrick’s thong. Tech #2 tugged it. Which only embedded the thong’s fabric further into the teeth. He pulled on the zipper. But it was indeed, stuck. “Come on,” Tech #2 muttered as he yanked the zipper back and forth. Gently at first. Then rougher.

Derrick watched in horror. “Careful. Easy,” he said in his soothing voice. Unfortunately, no one heard him.

The thong stretched, but would not give. “Damn! I wanted to be home to catch the second half of the Lakers’ game,” Tech #2 complained and heaved on the zipper.

“That’s Pucci, you neanderthal!” Derrick screamed.

Tech #1 said, “Hey, let me help.” He pulled on one end of the body bag while Tech #2 jammed on the opposite end. They heaved the zipper one-way, then yanked it back the other. They developed a strong rhythm. Enough so that, if you ignored the two techs, Derrick’s corpse looked like he was having healthy, vigorous sex, albeit for one, inside a partially open body bag.

“That’s desecration of a corpse! That’s most likely felonious and punishable by…something terrible!” Derrick glared at the stupid techs from the side of the pool.

Sweat poured off the two techs. “Zip fuck, man. Jeez, this guy’s a pain in the balls,” Tech #2 said. They bust out laughing and the zipper finally gave. Tech #2 zipped the body bag all the way up. “Great. Now I’ll have to make a notation on the departmental form, “Thong threads stuck in zipper due to zipper/wardrobe malfunction.” He scribbled on a small piece of paper, initialed it and tucked it into the little plastic pocket on top of the body bag with the other identifying paperwork.

An impeccable marble tiled driveway led from the curbside security automated gate and expanded to envelope the front of Derrick’s McMansion, front veranda, and four-car garage. Black and whites, detective sedans, ambulances, a couple of Porsches, a 500 E class Benz, a shiny Jag, and a morgue bus were parked on the marble perimeter. “Damn pseudo celeb,” Tech #1 said as they wheeled Derrick’s body on a gurney down the driveway to the morgue bus.

Derrick trotted next to the techs. “Pseudo celeb?” He said. “I am the celeb. I am – ”

“I couldn’t even afford the insurance for one of those pups,” Tech #1 said and nodded at the pricey rides.

“Downtown’s put a rush on Zip Fuck,” Tech #2 said as they hoisted and pushed the gurney into the back of the morgue bus.

The morgue bus driver, a very white guy with one lazy eye hovered next to the back doors and watched.

“I overheard they’re suspecting homicide. Vic got shot last night. Probably dress rehearsal for the real gig,” Tech #1 said and shut the bus’s back doors. Tech #2 pounded on the doors once, emphatically.

“Somebody I know?” The morgue bus driver asked.

“Nah, Morgo. Just some pussy best-selling self-help author, Dr. Derrick Fuller.”

Morgo turned white. “Not Dr. Derrick!” He bit his lip. “He promised me…”

“Wait, I remember you,” Derrick said. “You were the guy who wanted to open a mortuary, some day. You loved dead people - just like other people love dogs, or kids, or scrap booking. I thought you had passion and talent, and helped you set goals.”

Tech #2 glared at Morgo. “What did he promise you, Morgo? A blow job? You should have started getting those in high school,” he said. “Escort Zip Fuck to the morgue. Because he’s a pseudo celeb, don’t attract attention. Pretend he’s an old guy who choked on cantaloupe in his dining room and died with his head in a bowl of fruit salad. Drive slow and safe. Don’t use the dome. If we’re lucky, they’ll be cutting Derrick Fuller open, weighing his liver and taking tissue samples tonight before I even get to sit on my twenty-year-old couch, let alone crack open a cold one. Shit, I hope I get to see the last quarter.”

Derrick felt like all the blood rushed out of his body. Uh-oh. In reality, that was literally going to happen, soon. Maybe it was time to call it a day. Because this day was so sucky rotten that it couldn’t get any worse.

Annie sat on the floor surrounded by junk food wrappers, a half-emptied bottle of wine and snot-filled balled-up tissues. She had given up unpacking and was engrossed in her favorite Sandy Bullock romantic comedy, While You Were Sleeping. She blew her nose loudly into another tissue and tossed it. She not only loved Sandy, but also right now imagined that she and Sandy’s character were actually the same person. Alone except for a cat and desperately wanting love. More tears leaked out of Annie’s eyes. She walked to the bathroom, grabbed some toilet paper, blew her nose and looked in the mirror. Her eyes were puffy, and rivulets of mascara had bled down her face. She resembled the bastard love child of Marilyn Manson and Bozo the Clown. Shuffled back to the living room and plunked back on the floor. Teddy ran up to her with a fuzzy sparkly cat toy in his mouth and dropped it into her lap. She threw it across the room and he ran after it. At least his excellent adventure continued.

Her cell rang and she checked caller ID. It was Nancy/Mom. Julia said she shouldn’t talk to her Mom tonight. So she didn’t pick up.

Her cell rang again, this time, Julia. If Nancy knew that Julia told her not to pick up for Nancy, Nancy would have told her that God didn’t want her to talk to Julia. So she didn’t pick up that phone call, either.

A couple of minutes later, a third ring. Nancy. Again. Annie hesitated. It was that part in the movie where Sandy was going to marry the wrong brother. (Very emotional – No Sandy, please don’t!) So she let Nancy’s message go to voice mail. Voice mail was way more psychologically equipped than she was right now to handle Nancy.

Just as Sandy was walking down the aisle in the hospital’s tiny chapel, Annie’s phone rang again. She couldn’t take it any longer and just answered the damn thing. “This better be good,” she said.

Heavy breathing emanated over the phone, “Heeeeee. Heeeeee. Oooooh.”

Yuk. Ick. Phooey. She recoiled and pulled the phone away from her ear. It felt like the heavy breather’s words practically oozed down her cheek. No, that would be the snotball tissue that Teddy retrieved and tossed at her face. She wiped the goo off her cheek and threw the snotball-now-cat toy back into the furthest reaches of her new apartment, eighteen whole big feet away. He bounded after it.

The phone breather continued, “Nooh. Aaaaaah. Help. Eeeeeeh.”

Annie gathered her fury and hissed into the phone, “You’d like that wouldn’t you, pervert! I’ll help you pervert. I’ll help you to hell and back.”

“Oooooh.”

Annie hung up. Emphatically. Click. She returned to watching Bill Pullman and his enormously cute family give Sandy Bullock an engagement ring at her turn-style at the Chicago el station. Now that was love and that was worthy of heavy breathing.

The Observer crouched in the bushes across the street from Annie’s apartment, held a pair of binocs and watched Annie through the opening in her curtains. The Observer dropped a Piccolino’s Pastries wrapper to the ground, lifted a devil’s food cupcake and took a big juicy bite.

The morgue bus exited the estate. Drove down Sunset Boulevard past the gated, ritzy, residential section of the Palisades. Cruised down the Strip, not too busy at this time of night.

Morgo kept the domed spiraling lights off and dark. He played with the radio, but all he could get was the golden oldies station that played The Rolling Stones, Sympathy for the Devil.

Derrick watched from the back of the morgue bus and placed his spirit hand on his dead body. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a jerk. Self-absorbed. I don’t know how, but I’ll figure out who did this to us. I’ll bring our killer to justice,” he said and put his head in hands. He realized the morgue bus had stopped, the engine silent. That seemed like a quick trip from the Palisades to downtown. But what did he know about time when one was dead? Some said it was quick. Other sages insisted that it was slow, endless…

The back doors of the morgue bus squeaked open. Derrick jumped out first. “Thank God, you stopped. I was getting claustrophobic back there. It’s like a tomb. How did King Tut do it all those years?” He looked up. They were directly under the Hollywood Sign. “If I go to the After-Life, I think I’ll ask him.” He watched Morgo climb into the back of the van and unzip Derrick’s body bag. “I must say that I am honored, that you, Morgo, a man I can trust, are escorting me, well, what used to be me, to our next big appointment. Thank you. Thank you,” spirit Derrick said and wiped a few tears from his eyes.

Morgo pulled the gurney with Derrick’s body in the unzipped bag out of the bus. He heaved the gurney to the side of the road, whipped out a digital camera, leaned in, and took multiple compromising photos of dead Derrick in his body bag. “You promised me, Dr. Fuller. I want my mortuary. I need my dead people.”

Derrick watched appalled, and then he laughed. “Good student, Morgo. Those shots with the Hollywood Sign in the backdrop will be more lucrative. Now, snaps. Get those over to Star, or The Enquirer, ASAP. I’m not just a nobody pseudo-celebrity.”

The morgue bus took off, again. In the back, Derrick touched his lips to his hand and placed that kiss gently on top of his body bag. “One more thing, my friend. I’m jazzed about seeing our photos in the tabloids this week. But I can’t watch our autopsy. You know medical procedures generally make me queasy. The Bo-tox injections, Restylane, Fraxel, Thermage, the mini-lifts, lipo and all the stuff with the cancer – I had to take Valium before each procedure. I’m sorry. You’re going to have to go this one, alone.”

The morgue bus pulled into the receiving area of downtown L.A. County Forensics Facility. Otherwise known as the Los Angeles County Morgue.

Derrick exited through the open doors as his body was wheeled out. What now he thought?

Crackville Cookies

Description: Similar to chocolate chip cookies. Combined ingredients can be expensive, moderate or inexpensive. Chocolate chips include dark, semi-sweet, and white. All ingredients co-exist within same cookie, taste yummy and make everyone happy.

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, ever 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 $600 dollar a night for a basic room at this 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 most likely be frolicking, too. There would be Jacuzzis, eucalyptus steam rooms, saunas and every yummy bodywork miracle treatments 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 type without the early string of TV failures. But dammit, right now, he wasn’t even close to being there yet. 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, concentrated and said, “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,” he said. 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 anyone 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 quicker. Empathic people had a smidge of psychic ability. Empathics felt the emotions and physical reactions of other people in their bodies. They were basically super, 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? Couldn’t remember it for the life of him.

Okay, he needed to rephrase that, but not now, because this being dead thing sucked. Or 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 on February 16th at the scruffy, 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  towards the building. Funky-shaped, 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 was simple. Coffee Bean and Starbucks cups sat on a long table with Whole Foods containers. Next to them an LA Times newspaper was flung open to a headline on page two that read, “Dr. Derrick Fuller – Dead. Yes, 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 would appear Derrick Fuller was killed by poison, most likely cyanide,” he read.

“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 Cyndi 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 replied.

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

“I want the wife,” Kyle insisted.

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

“Fine. Who’s got 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, vegan 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 morning on 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 was radically thinned. Clean, lean, not a bad thing. Most, but not all of the boxes had been unpacked and disappeared. 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 theatre in Wauwatosa, Wisconsin. She told Mike the story about how she got her tattoo. 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 later that night for the first time, 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 one. When he asked her to marry him and move to Los Angeles to pursue his acting career, she said, “Yes!” because 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, her marriage had looked like a couple of pages in a freshly printed Sears’s catalogue. New, pretty with 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 about yesterday on Venice Beach, 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 towards her kitchen.

She set her oven to 350 degrees and walked towards 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 – stress. She applied sunscreen. Still had good skin. Luck, genetics, whatever. Maybe ’cause she was part Italian – the Mediterranean factor. Maybe she wasn’t smart enough for Mike? 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 today was not that day. 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 hit the on button. Flipped her laptop open. Clicked onto the Internet and glombed onto someone else’s open account. Scrolled through the Los Angeles News and saw: “Hwy 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, hey there, 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 home-wrecking 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, but 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. 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 that Larry’s wife wears an herbal eye mask during their intimate moments.” Annie ripped the packing tape off one box. Tape ripping, like yoga or Chi-Kung, was an effective tool to deal with irritation and stress.

“Well, I would.”

“Which is one reason Larry’s not married to you, Mom,” Annie said and pulled stuff covered in bubble wrap out 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. 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 said and her voice quivered.

“Mom, 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.

“Well, 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 the 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 ’cause 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, ’cause 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.

“I’m perfectly okay with people calling me your sister, Mom. 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?”

“Because Larry’s promoting a special show tonight. Came back from retirement for  breaking news.”

Annie carefully placed the teacup on the tall shelf, next to its relatives, the plates and bowls. “That’s nice,” she said. “Happens all the time. What’s the news?”

“‘Dr. Derrick Fuller: The Death of a Self-Help Guru.’ So is your cheating husband Mike on Larry’s special episode tonight? ’Cause if he’s not, I’d prefer to skip it and watch re-runs on The Hallmark Channel.”

Annie wobbled on the stepstool. She grabbed onto the top shelf. Her china shivered. Most of her pretty pieces decided to stay put, but that one damn teacup decided now was the time to end it all and jumped/fell. She did a quick Jackie Chan like maneuver it, but missed, and they both plummeted. The stepstool tipped over, she hit the floor and her ankle twisted in a funky angle underneath. Unfortunately her teacup didn’t fare as well. It shattered on impact.

“Annie? Annie Rose Graceland? Have you fallen?” Nancy yelled through the speakerphone. “Have you fallen and can’t get up? Should I call 411?”

“No. I’m completely upright and calmly thinking about what you just told me,” Annie answered, as she lay splayed on her back on the kitchen floor, her leg tucked underneath her. She looked at the fragments of the teacup scattered across the floor. “I think you’re mistaken about that Derrick asshole. He got shot, but he’s fine. The assholes always are,” she said, leaned back to touch her ankle and grimaced when she couldn’t reach it. Tears leaked out of her eyes. She couldn’t believe she was crying, again. She was a flippin’ water-spouting loser and had to pull it together.

“Oh. You’re on Spacific Time. So unless you caught the latest previews, you probably didn’t know,” Nancy said.

Annie held in a sob.

“Are you crying?”

“No!” She said as she grabbed her t-shirt, lifted it up and wiped her eyes. “Why would I be crying? For God’s sakes…” She noticed her shirt was flecked in blood.

“My darling daughter, you need to cry. Don’t keep all this left-over strudel inside, as it will only give you a bad gut and a bowling ball tummy. Trust me I know this one. I also know that the seventh day is God’s day off. On God’s day off, He goes shopping.”

“She. God is a woman, Mom,” Annie pulled a piece of broken china out of her hand next to her wedding band.

Nancy continued. “He looks for the real goods and compares them to the cheap knock-offs. God looked at Dr. Derrick Home-Wrecker Fuller, pronounced him a charlatan, then a fraud and then, dead. And I ask you that eternal Biblical question, ‘What hath God bought?’”

“You mean, ‘What God hath wrought?’”

“Dr. Derrick Fuller, the mean terrible man who fooled around with your husband, is dead. Dr. Smarty Pants reportedly died face-down on a lounge chair next to his pretty pool. And then somehow magically, I don’t know how you Hollywood types do it, had a post-mortem photo shoot under the HOLLYWOOD sign. I saw the pictures this morning in my online link to Star magazine. The stories are everywhere.”

“Oh, my God,” Annie exclaimed as she pictured guns. Lots and lots of guns. “You didn’t send Carson out here, did you?” She pulled a sliver of the teacup out of the upper part of her left breast.

“Carson hasn’t left Wisconsin since, you know, the incident. He brought me carnations for Valentine’s Day. And adjusted my neck. He’s a good son.”

“I’m not saying Carson’s a suspect in Fuller’s shooting.” Annie pulled herself up from her kitchen floor to her knees and knocked on her countertop loudly. “Oh. Someone’s at the door.” She yelled, “Coming!” turned back towards the phone. “Gotta go. Love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, my favorite daughter.”

“I’m your only daughter,” she said and clicked the off button on her phone. She slumped against the cabinet under her single sink and cried for her broken dreams, her past, her present. She shed tears for Mike and the impossibility of their future child. She cried for a lot of stuff. Guess it was just that time.

When someone, for real, knocked on her front door.

She stopped crying. Who knew she lived here? Julia and Grady, but they’d call first. “No, I’m not going to become a Jehovah’s Witness and yes, I’m already born again, thank you, Jesus!” she yelled. “This isn’t a good time. Go away.”

“It’s the police, Mrs. Piccolino. My name is Detective Raphael Campillio and I need to talk to you.”

She tried to pull herself up to standing, but her ankle wouldn’t cooperate and she fell back on her kitchen floor. She winced, but she would not cry.

Rafe Campillio stood outside Annie’s apartment. He noticed the herbs labeled and growing in little pots on either side of the front door in this modest Venice apartment complex. He squinted through his sunglasses and glanced at his watch. He and Kyle had an appointment to interview Fuller’s wife with her attorney in two hours at a swanky Century City law firm. He’d dropped by to get this basic interview with Annie Piccolino, the baker, currently low on the suspect list, out of the way. He glanced through the gap in her front living room window curtains. Framed family photos on the walls. Some funky antique furniture. Nothing unusual. He knocked again. “Mrs. Piccolino. I’m Detective Raphael Campillio from the LAPD. I need a few moments of your time.”

“Got it. But, I can’t open my door,” a woman’s voice said from inside the apartment. “I’m stressed, de-toxing from tobacco, probably hypoglycemic and recently taken some new prescription drugs,” she barely paused. “Jeez, give a girl a break. I moved, like, a day ago. Besides, how do I know you’re a cop? Maybe my cheating husband sent you to steal my cat, or make my life more miserable than it already is. Oh right, that’s not possible.”

Rafe shook his head. “Sounds like you’ve had a bad couple of days.” Actually more like she had a whack couple of days. Great. He looked again, this time more cautiously and thoroughly through her curtains. No visible crack pipes or any other drug paraphernalia. Just another day on the job, policing the residents of the City of Angels. “Can you see your front window?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to place my badge on your window so you can see my police I.D.” He pulled out his badge and stuck it against the break in her curtains in her living room window.

“Very official, thanks. How do I know you didn’t buy that from some Internet site? You’re not going to talk me into buying a time-share or ordering multiple magazine subscriptions. Promise me you’re the police?”

“I promise,” Rafe said. He’d planned to make this interview with Annie Piccolino, the baker in Dr. Derrick Fuller’s case, quick. Was pretty sure the baker didn’t even know Derrick, but had to question her nonetheless. “Do you want to call the West Los Angeles Division of the LAPD and confirm my identity? I’ll give you the number.”

“No, I believe you. But I still can’t open my door.”

He looked around. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so easy. The apartment complex had no security, but each unit probably rented for $1800.00 a month. Yes, most of Venice was pricey, but part of it was still the ’hood. He hadn’t anticipated Mrs. Piccolino would be difficult and that was his mistake. And, simple mistakes cost lives.

He backed away from her window and touched the Glock in his waist band holster reassuringly. Maybe Mrs. Piccolino was rail skinny, a cokehead, or a meth addict. He knew she was thirty-eight years old, but they hadn’t given him a pic to go along with the bio. She had no adult priors. Perhaps Mrs. Piccolino was armed and insane. Or, someone was in her apartment restraining her. Preventing her from opening her door.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Piccolino?”

“I’ve had better weeks. I’ve decided to trust that you’re not going to rape or convert me. But if you’re a liar, you will regret your actions.”

Great, Rafe thought. Should he call for back up? He peered again through the curtains and glimpsed a huge fuzzy white cat with crossed eyes peering back. The cat’s head moved up and down like a bobble head in a car. Could a possible strung-out killer have a dorky cat? He flashed to the Silence of the Lambs. The serial killer had a poodle named Precious. Never assume.

“Detective Raphael, please look three feet to the right of the front door as you’re facing it.”

“Call me Rafe,” he said. First rule in hostage situations: bond with the crazy person. Let them think you’re friends. On their page.

“Okay, Rafe. You’ll see fresh growing basil in a green flowerpot painted with white peace signs. A key is underneath that pot. Use that to open my front door.”

“Okay,” he said and picked up the key. Rafe put the key in the lock and thought that if Mrs. Annie Piccolino wasn’t an emaciated addict, she most likely wore a big muumuu, sported a thick moustache and exuded excessive body odor. He’d be cautious as he dealt with this nut-job and get to the real suspects. He sighed, turned the key and opened the door.

He walked in, looked in every direction for trouble. The enormous cat sprinted towards the open door. He grabbed him, petted his head, shut the door and gently pushed him to the side. “Mrs. Piccolino?”

“I’m in the kitchen.”

Rafe followed her voice, looking left and right. He saw her sitting on the kitchen floor.

“Sorry I couldn’t get to the door,” Annie said. “I’ll answer your questions from here.”

Rafe stared at her. No muumuus. Annie Rose Piccolino wasn’t rail skinny or plump. She was just right. More than right. Her auburn hair cascaded everywhere. She had beautiful bone structure and her body was a woman’s, not a teenage girl’s. She was mesmerizing. She was also white as a ghost, slightly cut up and a little bloody. Broken pieces of something that resembled china were scattered across her kitchen floor. That would most likely explain her tiny cuts. Her right ankle was tucked under her leg and she was breathing in short little gasps.

“Mrs. Piccolino?” Rafe asked, a little unsure of the situation now. “Are you hyperventilating?”

“I have no idea. Why don’t you call me Ms. Graceland? I’m separated, you know. Even better, call me Annie. You have questions?”

“Yes. Do you want me to call 911?”

“Why?”

“You’re on the floor and bloody…”

“No 911. That would waste taxpayers’ dollars and I’d feel guilty.”

“I’ll call an ambulance,” Rafe said and reached for his cell. “Why would you feel guilty?”

Annie waved, no. “Unnecessary ambulance rides cost money. We need that money to house our homeless, clean up our bay and educate politicians on finding peaceful alternatives to unnecessary wars.”

Rafe put the cell back in his pocket. “Your ankle is sprained or broken and you’re bleeding from multiple small lacerations. Did someone do this to you?” He squatted next to her.

“No one did this to me.” She pointed at the open cabinet overhead and the overturned stepstool on the floor next to her.

He nodded and said, “I want to pull your leg out from underneath you. It will hurt. You okay with that?”

She nodded. He pulled her leg out from underneath her. She grimaced and turned even whiter. Her ankle was still twisted but her leg was straight.

“I’m taking you to the emergency room.”

“Damn it, I hate doctors!”

“Including Dr. Derrick Fuller?”

“Especially. Obnoxious prick. No doctors. I’ll put a little compress on it.”

Rafe shook his head. “No. Right now medical attention’s a necessary evil. Wrap your arms around my neck.”

She eyed him. “I just met you.”

“I haven’t sold you real estate or magazines. Stop arguing and wrap your arms around my neck.”

She did. And noticed his arms were muscular, his shoulders built and that his eyes were a dark chocolate brown. “Fine,” she said. Yes, he was.

Rafe carried her through the kitchen and the living room and out her front door. He was going to miss the interview with Fuller’s wife. Kyle would handle it. And for some strange reason, he was suddenly okay with that.

Annie lay on the backseat of Detective Rafe’s unmarked police sedan on the way to the emergency room. She told him her mother’s telephone “share” about Larry King and Dr. Derrick Fuller being dead which most likely explained her shock and subsequent fall.

Rafe was quiet. Then he asked her where she had been on the afternoon of February 15th.

“I spent the whole day moving,” she said.

“We don’t have final tox exams back yet. But it’s possible that Fuller died from cyanide poisoning delivered in a Piccolino’s Pastry devil food cupcake. So, I think you need to tell me a little more,” Rafe said.

“I don’t bake with cyanide,” Annie said.

“Can anyone alibi your whereabouts on February 15th?”

“Yes, the mover boys... Turn the damn car around and take me to Whole Foods. I just need a homeopathic wrap.”

Rafe hit a pothole and Annie screamed. “We’ll hit the emergency room first and Whole Foods after,” Rafe said. “You okay?”

“Peachy!” Annie clutched her knee. “Sorry about bleeding all over your car.”

“Do you want an attorney present before we talk, further?” Rafe could have kicked himself for asking her that. Since when had he gone all soft and nice with suspects? He had to stop looking at her in the rearview mirror. But that hair, her perfect skin and that stiff upper lip. Where had he seen that upper lip thing, before?

“Good God no. Julia’s an Assistant Public Defender. She’s stressed. She’s helped me out a lot the past couple of days with my marital separation, move and stuff.”

“I mean for legal reasons.”

“Are you going to arrest me?”

“Not today.”

“Not ever. Wasn’t me. Don’t worry, you’ll figure out who killed Fuller. And when you do, let me know and I’ll pin a medal on his chest. And bake him a cake.”

Rafe looked at Annie, nodded and thought about what kind of cake she might make for him.

In the Emergency Room at Sawtelle Freeman Hospital, Annie sat on a ripped vinyl chair with her bad ankle wrapped in ice and elevated on a pillow on top of Rafe’s knee. The waiting room was about two-thirds filled with broken people. Rafe had pulled strings and flashed his badge to get the ice pack and pillow.

“So, in summary, Valentine’s Day sucked,” Annie said. “And now you’re here and obviously you think I’m a suspect in this dick’s…I mean Derrick’s… demise.”

“I’d say you’re a person of interest. My partner’s name is Kyle Pardue. He’s tanner than me, but not as nice. He’s going to push for a search warrant,” Rafe said. “How’s the pain?”

“On a scale of one to ten, I’d say a seven. A search warrant for my new place?” Annie asked. “I’ll give you a free pass. Look around. Go through my kitchen cabinets. Fumble through my lingerie drawer. There’s a tiny safe in my stick-your-nose-in closet. I’ll loan you the key. A search warrant for my old place? Talk to my separated husband, Mike Piccolino. I’m out of there.”

Rafe nodded.

“Detective Raphael, you’re a nice guy, but you’re on the clock. You didn’t plan on hanging with me for hours. No wasting taxpayer dollars. Go,” Annie said. “These hospital people will get to me soon.”

Rafe looked around the Emergency Room waiting room. An elderly woman rasped and clutched her chest, a gang guy with multi tats held tight to his pinkie finger which dangled from his hand. A pregnant teenage girl’s water broke all over the vinyl floor. They weren’t getting to Annie any time soon.

“I’ll stay,” he said.

Later that night, Annie lay on her couch with her foot elevated on several pillows wrapped securely in ace bandages and a walking orthopedic boot. A crutch lay next to her on the sofa.

Julia and Grady reclined on several large comfy pillows on the floor. They munched on chips, dip and guac. Washed that down with Coronas while they watched the “Larry King Live” show.

“Detective Raphael was way cuter than I expected. Interested?” Julia asked.

“Oh, please. I’ve been separated for what, four days?”

“Four days times twenty-four hours per day with Detective Rafe wouldn’t kill me. Hey, picture four days with him almost naked on a tropical beach, holding two mojitos. I’d call that the perfect va-ca park and fly. Truth or dare?” Julia asked.

“I’ve always known you were evil. Truth.”

“When’s the last time you talked to Mike?”

“I’m taking a little va-ca from Mike.” Annie knew Julia’s challenge was too easy and that she was being set-up.

“Good for you,” Julia said. “Unfortunately, Mike won’t stop calling me, Grady, your mom and begging us to give him your new number as well as pass along his whiny ‘I need to talk to Annie,’ messages. Therefore we, the primary members of your posse, aren’t getting any, “va-ca”. So I ask you Annie, when’s the last time you and Mike had sex?”

“Whoa,” Grady said and grabbed his notebook from his backpack. He flipped it open and scribbled furiously.

Annie looked away. “He was busy. I was busy.”

“Truth,” Julia pushed.

“Fine. Four months. Does that make you happy? Four months. But he promised me a baby. He promised me…”

“Stop!” Grady said. “Let’s watch Larry, enjoy our munchies and chill.”

“For now.” Julia sniffed. “I don’t think Mike’s going to be on Larry. Not a big enough fish. Pass the chips, dip and the Vicodyn.”

Grady handed Julia the chips, dip and the pill bottle. “I agree. He’s such a loser. Larry only interviews losers if they are either actively or recently involved with the debacle du jour.”

Annie poked the pointy end of the crutch repetitively into Julia’s back. “Hello? Why am I sitting here with a messed up ankle and no munchies?”

Julia passed the guac and chips to Annie. “You want the Vicodyn?”

Teddy sniffed the air and meandered towards Annie and the guac.

“No. It makes me loopy and kills my tum. Enjoy your buzz. You’ll be clutching your stomachs and belching acid tomorrow.”

“Why didn’t you ask Detective Muy Caliente to stay and protect you? Or something,” Julia asked.

“From what? My china? Caliente’s obviously a busy man with a consuming job. I highly doubt he has the time or inclination to hang out with me, Ms. Damaged Goods.”

“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 yamulka as he screeched out of the living room.

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

“Agreed,” Grady said. “However. Julia, once again, you’re hogging the drugs. 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 a crime I would have loved to commit, but unfortunately didn’t.”

“I’m not touching the ‘finger’ comment,” Julia said and 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 or something?”

“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 is 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 ’cause you died before I did.”

EIGHT

Funeral Fritters

Ten days later, on 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, in a cowboy hat, equally large sunglasses and a “Sexyback” t-shirt 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 them. 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, a sage eastern Indian guru 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 lush 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 on. 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 literally 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’s 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 copy was 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 might 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. 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 retorted and 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 suspiciously. “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, Annie - losing the battle doesn’t cost you the war.”

“No wars, Grady. 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 towards 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 sakes, we are Family Values 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 suddenly emanated from beautiful flowering hedges about fourteen feet apart from each other located in front of the parking lot. Two halves of a previously hidden electric fence moved towards each other. They zapped and incinerated every gnat, bee or fly that landed on them. The smaller bugs vaporized into a blue-purplish smoke. The bigger bugs hit the ground, squiggled what was left of their legs, and collapsed. For all the peace, love and feeling groovy vibes that this Shrine oozed, it still featured a fence that would happily fry a human’s trespassing behind.

Bootsy squeezed through the electric fence, but the two halves of the gate closed on 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 invited 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 said, 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. No, they pushed it straight towards the electrified fence.

Inside the car, 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.

“Ohmygod I hope they’re okay!” Grady said.

“They probably just have minor hernias or slightly bulging lumbar discs,” she said and snapped her fingers at him. “Focus on your mother. How did you explain your creativity, your snappy sense of humor, your less than 5% 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 U-ie and exited the shrine’s official premises. 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. Oh, and the Salvation Army’s having a closeout on suits this weekend. Good luck!” she said as they screeched out of the exit.

They passed Detectives Rafe Campillio and Kyle Pardue who entered the Shrine through the pedestrian gate on foot.

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 said and 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 or so feet up Sunset Boulevard past more 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 and replied, “Yeah there and thank God not today because 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, Grady. 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 peruse, and I’m not waiting one second longer,” she said and 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. Winced from the pain.

Grady watched her. “Before you go all John Wayne on me, you need to take your anti-inflammatory meds,” he said, 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 said, waved him away and continued limping towards the fence. “I’m cool. I’m a cool chick who has it together. Yeah there.”

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 $500 weekly from Bob Bauerfeld for Bootsy’s personal consultation. Booty’s 1980’s perm was so over. Perhaps Bob had grown tired of the $2,000 monthly checks he wrote to Derrick for two years and snapped…nah.

Suddenly Derrick’s gaze was pulled like magnets to the chain-link fence that surrounded the shrine. He felt a presence. A force. A vibe. Someone, something intriguing, beguiling was out there. Even though he was the head marshal of this parade, he had to find out. He reluctantly threw both Oprah and Dr. Phil an air-kiss as they walked down the cedar path and jogged towards the fence.

In his wake, Oprah slapped her face and looked at the palm of her hand like a bug bit her. Dr. Phil frowned and discretely scratched his butt.

Annie attempted to peer through the ivy-covered chain-link fence and peeked into the shrine. She desperately hoped Mike was not attending Derrick’s funeral. If she spotted him, she would kill him, escape the scene of the crime, and then buy every bag of Kettle Chips at her local convenience store.

At first glance, Annie saw nothing through the fence and that irritated her. Oh yes, she had put in her time and done her research. She knew the basic players and way more about Fuller than she really wanted to know. She jumped up and down on her crutch to get a better view. Caught a glimpse of a rare orchid indigenous to the Amazon on her first jump. Ow! She knew about the Amazon thing only because there was a large sign describing the orchid situated next to a larger sign, that insisted, “No Trespassing – Ever!” On her second jump, she spotted several monks with shaved heads wearing traditional full-length brown-orangey robes leading a processional of mourners. Yikes! That landing hurt more. Next jump, she thought she saw a monk carrying a platter with something the size of a baby food jar covered by a white silk scarf. Huh?

She landed and a boatload of pain traveled up her ankle. She needed more info, but the jumping thing killed her.

“It’s another fence, Annie,” Grady said.

“I could climb this sucker with one hand tied behind my back,” she said. “I’m from Wisconsin, you know. Fences mean nothing.”

“Fences exist to keep people out. We’ll visit another day,” he said, leaned back against the fence next to her.

“Fences don’t keep people out, Grady. People keep people out. Stop being a downer. I need to see who’s at the funeral. I’m a suspect in this jerk’s murder, I might be getting divorced and my business is in the toilet. I need to see who wanted Derrick Fuller dead.”

Grady rubbed the muscles around his jaw. “Just because I don’t share your fascination with Dr. Derrick Fuller doesn’t mean I’m a downer.”

“Fine. Weenie.” Annie pulled a case from her purse and opened it. She took out and unfolded a small pair of binoculars painted in camouflage colors. She put them to her eyes and peered through the chain link fence. Aah. Much better view of the suspects…

Annie watched as approximately one hundred mourners clustered in a picturesque spot next to the shrine’s pond. Swans and ducks swam past them in the background. There were tears and hugs, air-kisses and card swapping galore. The monks chanted, lit sage sticks and waved them around. She kept scanning. She wasn’t here to look for spiritual men or waterfowl. She was here to check out suspects, such as…

Derrick’s widow, Tawny Fuller. The plastic Barbie swayed like a blown up palm tree in a small kidney shaped swimming pool in the wrong neighborhood in the Valley. Madison Morgan, Derrick’s new manager practically held her drunken, drugged behind up. Motive: Please. The pre-nup? Spousal irritation? The cheating? Or perhaps what was left after Derrick’s financial decline. Or was there really a decline???

The manager, Madison Morgan. The very metro but still manly Madison seemed to switch alliances quickly. One day he was Derrick’s new manager. The next – a human crutch for Tawny Fuller. According to Annie’s sizeable research, Derrick was about to file for divorce from Tawny. Therefore, the overly solicitous Morgan could be involved in Derrick’s untimely demise. Motive: Money. Sex. Sex and money. Passion? Love? Doubtful.

The housekeeper, Concha. The middle-aged, short Latina woman sobbed and clutched the arm of a fully robed Catholic priest. Motive: Anger? Never got a decent promotion?

The former manager, Barry Cooperman. The hefty guy in the overly expensive suit and creatively combed-over hair had to be Barry. Motive: According to what Annie had ascertained, Derrick dumped Barry right before he was offed.

Derrick’s lawyer, Lewis Scuchiani. Worked at a reputable firm but had been hired for his family connections. Thirties, painfully thin with bulgy eyes. Lewis’s mother was an east coast socialite who designed wrap dresses. His shirt had the same pattern that was on his Mom’s dresses. Unfortunately, on Lewis’s scrawny frame it made him look like a skinny, wet lap dog. Oh Mummy! Why do all the kids make fun of me? Fortunately for Lewis, his new fiancée and the boss’s daughter, Hailey Strunkle, a Goth twenty-something with jet black dyed hair and multiple piercings, didn’t care. She hung on Lewis’s arm like her sanity depended on it.

Then there was Ginger. Hot trainer, late twenties. Ginger made Derrick complete his exercises and stretches before business, personal meetings or clandestine dates. Her reputation depended on the fitness of her celeb clients. Ginger scored several national as well as local fitness commercials and landed a few Shape magazine covers. She not only had a great ass, but great aspirations.

In regards to the aspirations, yeah there, didn’t we all, thought Annie. She couldn’t help but swivel and try to check out her own behind in her sweats that felt just a little, okay honestly, really too tight. (Sweats to a funeral, one might ask? Yes, since all her appropriate funeral clothes had shrunk in the old dryer at the Frisk & Fold Laundromat in Venice. And the sweats she was wearing were still couture.) Was Ginger completely professional? Or another Derrick conquest? Motive: Jealousy. Greed. Crime of passion if she caught him pumping iron with someone else?

Dr. Stern, Derrick’s dermatologist. His face was pink like a newborn baby’s butt from his most recent chemical peel. Motive: Insurance didn’t pay his bills? Derrick didn’t pay his bills? Did Dr. Stern’s chemical peels have more than basic chemicals in it?

And then can you say easy maybe sleazy on the eyes, three times really fast - a twenty-something guy who was so stinking beautiful he gave new meaning to the word, cupcake. Hmm. Suspect was a sun-kissed, blonde surfer type, gorgeolicious, and looked familiar. Probably another actor wanna-be like Mike. Just younger and scads prettier. Annie didn’t have a handle on him. Yet.

And then there were the…

Celebrity Suspects: Too many to mention.

Yeah there. This whole scene was like a circus; a puzzle and a really bad reality show all mushed together. Thankfully, with her family background, she was good to go with two out of the three.

Grady stood behind Annie and watched as she peered through her camouflaged binocs. “I’m not a weenie. I’m practical. That’s the key to weathering life’s storms. You’re not being practical,” he said, sniffed the air and his nose crinkled. “I smell something tangy. Do they burn incense here?”

“Absolutely. But you’re probably smelling the deer urine.”

“Deer urine?” Grady looked disgusted, but to his credit, still asked.

Annie peered intently through her binocs. She couldn’t wait to see who else tripped down that pretty path next to the pond. She was dying to see the casket. “Couple of years ago, Mike had an audition to play a hunter on some stupid TV show. He needed to rehearse. I was visiting my family in Wisconsin and just happened to borrow my brother Carson’s binocs. He used them primarily for deer hunting. The binocs are camouflaged so the deer don’t see them. Some hunters splash a little deer urine on themselves or their guns to better entice Bambi’s mother. Spy on the suckers, entice them with the urine thing and then blow them away. A couple of months later, throw a venison BBQ. BYOB. Quadruple multi-tasking. A Midwestern Martha Stewart-like wet dream.”

“Yuck. Did Mike get the part?”

“No. They said he looked too…nice. Like a guy who would only buy meat at an organic grocery store.”

“Why didn’t you give back the binocs to Carson?”

“’Cause he didn’t know that I swiped-I-mean-borrowed them. I’ll secretively return them next time I go back for a family holiday, death, birth or baptism. Wanna peek?”

Grady looked a tad nauseous. “Let’s say I did even though I didn’t. Then I’ll write about it.”

“Okay,” she said and honed in on the funeral gathering, through the binocs.

Suddenly, something gray and cloudy obscured Annie’s view. That gray thing dove into her head and descended through her body. She shook slightly for a second and felt like she had a wicked hangover that penetrated her bones. But she hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol for days. Maybe she needed a new nicotine patch. She held her binocs with one hand, pinched that skin between her eyebrows with the other and tried to drive away the awful queasy feeling.

Grady watched her and looked concerned. “Hey lady, it’s quit time. You need to lie back on a cushy sofa, elevate your ankle and chill.”

She rubbed the nicotine patch on her arm. “I need a smoke.”

Grady frowned. “No-no. It’s been over a week. You need… a margarita.”

“Really. Who’s going to make me the margarita?” she asked and frowned from the pain in her head, gut and bones.

“If you’re nice, maybe the best margarita maker in all of Los Angeles,” Grady said and pointed to himself.

“Ooh. And you are - Manuel Testicales?”

“That would make a great Latino porn name. I need to steal that name.”

“I’ll give it to you. Everyone needs a great Latino porn name. Some day I’ll tell you mine.” Annie squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her head.

Someone caught Grady’s eye. About one hundred yards down the road from them was a guy who also held binocs to his eyes as he tried to catch a glimpse into the shrine’s ceremonies.

“Changed my mind, so I’ll borrow your binocs, ’kay?” Grady said. He leaned into Annie, snatched the binocs and stretched its cords, whip-lashing her neck.

“No need for violence. Although I understand the deer urine thing really brings it out,” Annie said and rubbed her neck.

Grady peered through her binocs, his head practically resting on her chest.

Annie looked nauseous and jabbed her hand into her stomach.

Grady looked nauseous when he realized the guy peering through the binocs was Mike Piccolino. Grady shivered. “We need to leave, now.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m…. parched,” he lied. He couldn’t tell the truth ’cause he didn’t want Annie arrested after she drove her Cabrio repetitively over Mike’s head.

Two inches directly across from Annie on the opposite side of the chain-link fence was the ghost of Dr. Derrick Fuller. He stared at her, mesmerized. It was she. His Empath. Oh thank you thank you Higher Super Dude Power for this very nice funeral present! Derrick tried to stroke his empath’s long auburn hair, but she frowned, pulled back and jabbed her hand back into her stomach. Most likely she was trying to ease her excited positive anticipatory feelings after sensing his soothing presence.

“I think I’m going to puke, Grade,” Annie said. Her complexion was now pea green. “I’ve got a killer headache and don’t feel like myself. Something’s wrong.” She pulled away from the fence. “Maybe coming to the memorial service was too much. Or, I shouldn’t have taken drugs on an empty stomach.”

“We’re going and I’m driving,” Grady said, grabbed her arm and dropped her binocs.

“No!” Derrick screamed from the other side of the Shrine’s fence. “Don’t leave me! I need you. You can’t go!” He put his dead head in his dead hands and massaged his temples. “Tell your cute friend you must stay, do a little more research and think about it.”

Annie frowned and rubbed her head. “I don’t know. Maybe we should stay. Or should we go? Let’s think about it. Research? I feel woozy,” she said.

Grady realized Mike spotted them when he saw Mike, with a crazed look on his face, walking in their direction. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Grady hustled her away from the fence, through the weeds and dirt, back towards her car. He shoved her into the passenger seat, tossed her crutch into the back, tucked her bad foot in gently and slammed the passenger door as Mike jogged towards them.

“Hey!” Mike yelled as he closed the distance.

Grady flipped him off as he bolted to the driver’s door and hopped in the car.

Mike responded by flipping off Grady and kept running towards the Cabrio.

“Keys! Where are the keys?” Grady looked around the dashboard and dug in the driver’s seat.

Annie leaned back on the car seat and rubbed her head. “I’m sorry. What was I thinking? Crazy to stay.”

“Keys!” Grady hollered.

“In the ignition. Hello? This car is twelve years old. Steal it. I beg you.”

Grady fired up the Cabrio’s engine. In the rearview mirror, he saw Mike running towards them – just yards away.

“I don’t know what got into me,” Annie said. “You are a lovely man, Grady. We’ll figure out a way to tell your Baptist Iowan mother.”

“Everything in due time,” Grady said, turned the radio on, volumed it up and skidded onto Sunset Avenue. He watched in the rearview as Mike picked a rock off the ground and threw it at the Cabrio. It bounced off the bumper. The blaring of the radio barely drowned out Mike’s hollers.

“Did I hear something? You okay?” Annie raised her head for a heartbeat.

“Everything’s fine. No worries. We’ll be drinking margaritas in twenty minutes. That’ll re-hydrate you. Manuel Testicales is here to serve you.”

Derrick watched his empath leave in that old disgusting car. He wasn’t strong enough to stop her. That irritated him. If he was alive, he could have convinced her to stop and do whatever he wanted. Hardly anyone could resist him when he was alive. He wasn’t going to have much fun being dead, if everybody and their mother-in-law could resist him. How could he seduce the empath into helping him? How would he find her again?  Questions, damn it, really tough questions. It was enough to put a furrow in his brow. Oh God. Would the Bo-tox and Restylane be permanent now that he was dead? What if they lost their juice and he was left with wrinkles, frown lines and thick nasal-labial folds? He shuddered. It was too much for any self-respecting “100 Most Interesting People” in People Magazine 2007 to handle. Which is why he jogged back to his ceremony. He had to stop his mind from spinning, and besides, who could resist the pageantry?

Funeral Fritters

Description: Fresh apple slices dipped in a lightly sugared buttered and floured batter. Sautée gently. Place on cooling racks covered in paper towels before serving.

Best Served With: Gloating. Obsessive spying. Persistence. Stolen binoculars. Deer urine.

NINE

Heavenlies

Grady made margaritas while Annie listened to the new messages on her answering machine. The first three were from the three vendors who still carried her baked goods. They politely cancelled all their current as well as future orders. They also swore their decisions had nothing to do with the TMZ leaked rumors that it was a Piccolino’s Pastries cyanide-laced cupcake that had poisoned and killed Derrick Fuller. Annie would investigate those rumors tomorrow. Today was a wash.

Grady listened in and looked at Annie, who was a step up from Chernobyl gray, as she leaned on her kitchen counter. He held up his middle finger and pointed it at the phone. “Screw them!” He said and handed her a margarita. “Enjoy.”

“Screw them!” Annie flipped her middle finger at the phone. Took a sip. “Yum. Very nice, Manuel. Can I get the recipe?”

“No, but you can keep me in your tool chest. Got any other job opportunities?”

“None, whatsoever,” she replied and took another sip. Two. Three. Acted like she was cool. But her hand that held the drink shook slightly.

Grady tried not to look concerned. “How are your finances?”

“Absolute shit,” she said, handed him her drink, hobbled towards her couch, lay down and put her foot up on pillows.

He re-filled her margarita glass and handed it back to her. “You going to hit Mike up for alimony?”

“Do you know how much debt Mike incurred for acting classes, head shots, therapy and facials? There is no money for alimony. There are only ginormous credit card bills.”

“Oh,” Grady said. “Have another slug, I mean sip, of your margarita. What about your inheritance?”

“I tapped it to move out here and invest in our careers. And my latest move cost a fortune.”

“Oh well,” Grady grimaced. “Buena suerte,” he said and toasted Annie.

“I’d like some good luck, thank you.” She toasted back.

The last three answering machine messages were from family members.

Message #1: Annie’s Aunt Susan, her mom’s sister, insisted that Mike and Los Angeles were part of a satanic cult and that Annie must move back to Wisconsin, immediately. Aunt Susan placed the squirrel and other rodent traps and was certain that within a week, Annie could live in her attic bungalow without being nibbled.

Message #2: Her brother Carson talked low and quiet into the answering machine. “Sis. Debacle #1. We can crush him. Let me know when.” Uh-oh. Annie knew this meant Carson had called his Wisconsin Homies and they had already stock piled their favorite guns and ammo. Midwestern ice and snowstorms be damned. Carson and his Wisomies would brave the elements, pile into a tricked out truck and head to sunny L.A. to take out her wandering husband.

Message #3 was from her mom. “Annie Rose Graceland, this is your mother. I realize you didn’t know your father Joe, but I want to remind you that your dad loved you dearly.”

Grady walked over and handed Annie another frosty margarita. “Nancy on the sauce?”

“No. Just us.” Annie took the drink.

“Your father, Joe Graceland was funny and handsome and a little in your face. We were very young, but we fell crazy in love. My family thought I could do better and his parents knew he could. And yet… here you both are, our beautiful daughter Annie and handsome son Carson. I want you to know. I truly regret I couldn’t get my act together to date, and re-marry and you know, find you and your brother a decent step-dad.

Grady looked at her. But Annie’s face was frozen. He took her free hand and squeezed it.

Nancy’s message continued, “I know this is a really tough time for you. But I also know your father would want you to be strong and want you to fight for whatever you think is right. ’Cause he did. And he would not want you to take shit, I mean shoot, from anyone. Including family members. Whose names I will not mention. Including my own. I will support you as much as I possibly can. I love you, my only daughter. And you fight now. Bye bye. Love you. Mom.”

Annie looked bewildered, then determined. “That’s the first time she’s talked about her and dad’s relationship in thirty-six years.”

Annie tossed and turned on her couch. Grady was gone, lights were out and the margaritas hadn’t helped her headache or her attitude. She looked at the clock on the wall. 10:45 p.m. She got up, turned on a light and took a large scrapbook from the bottom shelf of a tall bookcase. Dusted it off with the edge of her T-shirt. Sat on her floor and opened the large book with yellowed pages and tattered edges.

She stared at her mom and dad’s wedding picture. Her dad, Joe Reilly Graceland was Irish/Italian, dark hair and godfather handsome. He was raised Catholic in a poor, but proud, family in Chicago’s Little Italy. Back in those days, this scrappy neighborhood wasn’t filled with trendy restaurants and yuppies. It was small brownstones and tidy yards and working class people who were somehow connected to the mob or trying their best to stay out of it. Her dad was the latter. Everyone described Joe as passionate, a ham, funny and stubborn as shit. He was a soldier in the U.S. Army who served in ’Nam.

Her mom, Nancy Emma Priebe was raised middle-class German Lutheran in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. She was smart but silly. A petite, pretty blonde with curly long locks who loved music and sketching. Nancy sang in the Lutheran church choir, played the organ, organized bake sales and fundraisers. She was stubborn as shit and she was a soldier for God.

Family reunion pics showed all the grandparents: Italian, Irish, German as well as their kids, and their kids’ kids. Photo spreads of a few birthday parties for both her and Carson. Funny hats and birthday cakes and a whole lot of hamming going on. There was a photo of Annie as a toddler with her dad, who twirled her over his head. She was chubby had red ringlets, was covered in snow, and had a huge open-mouthed smile. In the background Mom/Nancy looked up at them, smitten.

There were a bunch of pictures of her dad with his army buddies in combat gear at Fort McCoy, Wisconsin. They posed goofing with each other. The next pictures were of Joe and his soldier buds as they tried to appear tough and cool and leaned on an army-issued decked-out jeep in ’Nam.

Then the album got spotty. A school picture of Carson in the third grade. A photo of Annie in her kindergarten Pocahontas Halloween costume. She turned the page, but there were no more pictures. The album ended, there. Joe Trabiccio Graceland died in Vietnam on a simple scouting mission when she was just a toddler. Annie knew that Nancy’s passion for living also died when Joe did. She closed the book and rubbed her forehead.

She tossed on her couch and thought about patterns. Her parents’ were obvious. Both her mom and dad were “stubborn as shit,” as well as “soldiers.” And, both lost their lives - one literally, the other figuratively - after unnecessary tragedy.

Her patterns? Hmm. Stevie Hufnagel her high school sweetheart/drug dealer: dumb-as-shit, but really cute jerk. Mike Piccolino her cheating husband: weakling, handsome, most-likely a bigger jerk. Derrick Fuller: home-wrecking, entitled, good-looking, dead jerk. The pattern was clear: attractive jerks. She really didn’t want to waste the rest of her life because of one or two or ten jerks.

Be still, she told herself. Center, focus and meditate. She chanted the words she learned at yoga. Omm, shanti, shanti. Those words roughly translated to “Love, love. I am still. I am peace.” They were beautiful words. But she couldn’t help but think about Derrick Fuller. Omm. Jerk. Omm. Dickwipe. Omm. Dead or alive, I will so find a way to rip you a new one. Omm. I am coming for you…

So maybe this meditating thing just wasn’t working, yet. She craved a smoke. Just a little smoke, a couple of teensy puffs. She dug behind the couch cushions. Found a pen, a take-out menu for Murray’s Curry Indian Restaurant and an Altoid covered in cat hair that had itsy teeth marks on it. Then she found the mother lode – half a cigarette.

She put it to her nose and sniffed it. Lovely. She held it between her second and third fingers. Gestured. Put it to her mouth. Pretended to puff on it. Oh, the call of an old, fabulous, but poisonous lover. She examined the broken cig. It was squished, but if she held it carefully, she might be able to light it. She hobbled into her kitchen, lit a burner on her gas stove. Watched the flame poof, held the cig to it and fired it up. She took a sniff–it smelled intoxicating. She brought that old lover to her lips and…

No! It was a drug, an addiction, another attractive jerk. She dropped the smoke down her sink, ran the water and the garbage disposal. Picked up her phone and called the only person that could possibly be crankier than she was right now. The phone rang and rang. He finally picked up.

“Who’s the limey bastard ringing me in the middle of the X-Files reruns? I’ll hunt you down and block you from ever calling me again.”

“Hi, Grandpa. It’s me, Annie. Is it too late?” She bit her lip.

“It’s one a.m. and not a decent time to call anyone. For the love of Christ, next time you do it, I’ll kick Carson’s butt to the curb. You, on the other hand, are too cute to touch.”

“Thanks, Pa,” Annie said, smiled and cradled the phone to her ear. “Why don’t you just unplug your phone when you watch TV and let your messages go to voicemail?”

“Because then I wouldn’t be talking to you now, would I, girl? Hang on. I have to tinkle.”

Annie didn’t want to hear Grandfather Graceland tinkle. “No, no. I’ll call you back.”

“Hang on. I’ll put you on this high tech thing called ‘speaker.’”

“Absolutely not. You need your privacy or sleep. Both.” She knew his tinkling was less than a moment and more like an event.

“I’ll run the water. You’re not going anywhere,” he insisted. “I have urgent dream messages for you from Nonna Maria. Don’t ever think if someone is dead, that their power is gone.”

“Absolutely,” she said. Her Pa was loony but she loved him. The sound of rushing tap water emanated over the phone. She held the phone arm’s distance away from her ear, hopped around her living room and turned on a couple of lights.

“Dream messages. Terrible. Nightmares. Just like in the X-Files,” Pas voice filtered through the sound of running tap water and the low rumble of a toilet flushing.

She put the phone back to her ear. “Right, Pa. What did Nonna Maria say?”

“ ‘Shaky. Shaky. Put it all back in. Adjust, zip and don’t you dare touch me until you wash your hands.’ She was a stickler for hygiene, your grandmother.”

Annie frowned. “No, Pa. What did Nonna Maria say in your dream messages?”

The sound of rushing tap water stopped. “She said once an jerk, twice an jerk, makes one an asshole, forever. She insisted you look at her book of spells, page sixty-seven or seventy-six. I get confused.”

“What book of spells?”

“Nonna believed that every woman on her side of the family tree has a psychic gift. That’s why when Nonna passed and went to heaven, she bequeathed you her book of spells. Since Catholicism scared your mother, she would think the book was voodoo and never give it to you. Therefore Nonna stuck her book of spells on the back of her photograph that’s most likely hanging on your living room wall.”

Annie looked up. Her grandmother’s picture was indeed hanging on her new living room wall. In the photograph, Nonna Maria was in her seventies and stunning except that she looked  serious. Her portrait basically conveyed, ‘Don’t mess with me or I’ll pulverize your body parts that I severed from your useless corpse when you pissed me off and sprinkle them into my meatball recipe.’

She got up off the couch, limped over, lifted Nonna’s picture off the wall, turned it over and pushed on its paper backing. The backing didn’t give. There was something underneath it. She gently ripped the paper, and pulled out a thin notebook, entitled in handwritten cursive, “Maria’s Book of Spells.”

“Oh, my God. I found Nonna Maria’s book of spells,” Annie said and held the manuscript.

“Good. Maybe she’ll stop showing up in my dreams, now. I love the woman, but even I have limits,” Pa said. “I’m back to the X-Files. It’s the one where Scully thinks that the older man, the one who predicts how a person dies, is crazy. Hah! She’s in for a surprise.”

Heavenlies

Description: Delicate chocolate truffles dipped in melted white chocolate placed on wax paper and left to cool in fridge. Please eat in moderation.

Appropriate Occasions: Anytime. Anywhere.

*Exception: Do not eat while driving as your reflexes may be impaired.

Best Served With: Insomnia. A heavenly book of magical spells.

TEN

Raisin’ the Dead

Annie sat on her couch in the dim light and paged through the book. All of the spells were handwritten, most in English with the occasional word penned in Italian. There were spells for love and some to get out of love. Spells for money and others to get rid of money bunnies.

She checked out page sixty-seven. It was entitled “When He Needs to Wake Up and Love You.” That didn’t seem appropriate right now. She flipped to page seventy-six. That page had two entries. The first was, “Get Rid of Evil Pesky Assholes.” The instructions were short, and included an ice pick, a hammer and some nails. The second entry was, “Get Rid Of Evil Pesky Dead Assholes. These instructions were longer and there was an asterisk under it followed by, “Most potent when performed at midnight.”

Annie looked at the clock: 11:17 p.m. She yanked on a pair of sweats under her long sleeved T-shirt and swore at the Frisk & Fold laundromat for shrinking her sweats as they were now practically painted on her butt. She snatched the saltshaker from the kitchen counter and tossed it in her purse. She grabbed her crutch, the spell book and hobbled out her front door.

Crouched in the bushes across the street from Annie’s apartment was the Observer in the same gray parka and thick loose gloves. The Observer watched Annie leave her apartment. Held a small digital voice activated recorder and whispered into it. “Dimwit showed up today at Fuller’s memorial service. Why? Dimwit should not be at Fuller’s service. She tried to enter premises and created a scene when turned away. She exited Shrine, but still managed to spy on Fuller’s service through the chain link fence. Did not expect Dimwit to be so proactive.”

Annie sped down Pacific Coast Highway towards the Shrine with Nonna Maria’s book of spells seat-belted in the passenger seat. Her car windows were down. She needed the brisk salt air to slap her in the face, heighten her senses and give her a healthy dose of adrenaline. The ocean crashed, receded, and crashed again on the long sandy beaches that were peppered with volleyball courts, the occasional couple having sex and the obligatory weirdo watching them. Nice thing about L.A. was that it was very user-friendly for all the folks who ran the gamut from artistic and creative, to demented and deranged.

She looked up at the sky. It was a heavy full moon. Lustrous, beautiful and if she was lucky, the perfect time to cast a spell. Hopefully a little after midnight, she’d get rid of everything terribly bad that Derrick Fuller represented. Bad men, bad eggs, bad habits, bad business – all gone. In with the new and good.

This was a huge defining moment in her life. Right there and then, she swore on that ripe seductive moon that she’d revive her career. Maybe find a new man who didn’t lie, cheat or squander either her inheritance or his sperm. She might even pop out a peri-menopausal egg that was still strong and healthy with this virile man and beat the fertility odds. She turned a sharp right onto Sunset Blvd. The clock read 11:39. She had twenty-one minutes to cast Nonna Maria’s spell at midnight and break the pattern of good-looking jerks forever.

A bland taupe Mercedes sedan followed Annie’s car from her apartment, through the side streets of Venice and Santa Monica, onto the Pacific Coast Highway towards Malibu. The sedan pursued from a safe distance. Even drove past Annie when she parked next to the chain link fence on Sunset at the Yogi Meditation Shrine. The Observer pulled a U-ie and parked on the opposite side of Sunset. Turned off the car’s engine, rolled down the driver’s side window, pulled out night vision goggles and trained them on Annie.

Annie climbed down the inside of the Shrine’s chain link fence with the help of her crutch and a mini Mag flashlight clenched between her teeth. The ivy grown into the fence was thick, tough and helpful to hold onto as she maneuvered to the ground. How had she lived for thirty-eight years without a crutch? It came in handy for walking with a bum ankle, climbing fences and trespassing. She limped quickly and quietly down the cedar-chipped path to where she thought Derrick’s funeral entourage huddled earlier in the day.

She knew when she found the spot. Her heart skipped a beat.

A 10 X 12 inch platinum plaque was freshly cemented into the ground next to the pond. She shone her flashlight on it but couldn’t see a thing through the million rose petals on top of it. She flipped her crutch and used the cushy armpit section to shove those poorly sacrificed flowers to the side. Read the inscription on the plaque, “Here lie some ashes of Dr. Derrick Fuller. He gave so much. I Promise… We’ll miss you forever. Born to this Earth: September 15, 1958. Born to the Afterlife: February 15, 2009. Live on Derrick. Live on.”

“Dick, you were friggin’ cremated?” Annie asked and hammered her crutch repetitively on his plaque. “You didn’t have the decency to be buried, like the majority of people?” She balanced on her crutch and stomped on his plaque with her good foot.

She checked her watch and looked up at the full moon. Two minutes left till midnight. “You are toast, moron. You are so out of my life,” she said and flipped to page seventy-six of her grandmother’s book of spells.

Derrick reclined in a rowboat tethered to a small wooden dock built next to the pond. He was yards from his new, lovely plaque that covered a pinch of his priceless ashes. He was very happy the pretty empath returned for him. Even though she acted all pissed off and irritated, he knew she wanted him. He didn’t quite know how to persuade her to help him, but in his experience, people generally tripped themselves up. Then he would saunter in to pick up the pieces. He watched her pacing, poking and pontificating. It made her even cuter. Derrick smiled. This would be fun.

Annie grabbed the saltshaker from her purse, dropped her purse onto the ground. She stood as tall as she could and closed her eyes. “It’s payback time, lover-boy,” she said and looked at her watch. Five seconds before midnight under a full moon. Three, two, one. She read the spell out loud.

“Get Rid Of Evil Pesky Dead Assholes spell.

Instrucciones: Under la luna bella at midnight, toss salt over each of the four corners of the grave. Read spell out loud and spit on each corner. Must do with passione!”

Annie tossed salt in all four directions of the plaque.

She spit on the north end of the plaque.

“I spit on your head, for those you misled.”

She turned and hocked one on the south end.

“I spit on your eyes so you fry on your lies.”

She swiveled and spit on the east end of the plaque.

“I spit on your feet so you feel hell’s heat.”

She gathered all her fury and her remaining sputum, spun 180 degrees and hocked a whopping lougie that landed with serious gravity on the west end. It took out a small unsuspecting spider that meandered across the plaque.

“I spit on your grave to be your slave.”

Oops. She screwed up that last line. It was supposed to be, “I spit on your grave to never be your slave.” Whatever. He was gone. The colossal jerk, known as Derrick Fuller, was history. She stared up at the full moon, stretched her arms tall over her head and arched her spine backwards. She closed her eyes and let the moon’s energy pour through her body. Yummy. Enjoy hell, bucko. Hope you brought your flannels and your fur coat.

Blue vapor materialized and ascended from Annie’s multiple spits. The vapors grew taller, thicker, twisted around each other and merged into a single column. That column became a lumpy rectangle, then took on a human form – and transformed into the blue spirit body of Derrick Fuller. Wow, Derrick thought. The fact that he could do that was super cool.

He stood behind Annie, crossed his arms and tapped his foot. He grew a couple of blue inches taller, looked surprised and then pleased at his reflection in the moonlit waters. He struck a pose, flexed his bicep muscle and admired himself.

Annie wiped her hands. Everything was quiet. She checked her watch: 12:01 p.m. She did it. She was free. But, her stomach gurgled loudly and she hunched over in sidesplitting pain. A compelling hypnotic voice that said, “How dare you spit on the grave of a recently deceased person? That is disgusting and frankly, crass.”

Had to be the cheap suit event organizer. Oh goodie. Another function for the multi-tasking crutch. She was going to nail this loser.

She turned and saw a six foot two inch ghostly blue version of Derrick Fuller in his silver thong standing directly in front of her. “O-holy-je-friggin’-chris-friggin’-oh-my-God–shit!” She screamed bloody murder at the top, middle and bottom of her lungs. She screamed for the dead, to wake the dead, and possibly caused a couple of deaths from heart attacks and a few strokes at the nearby Senior Snoozes Cozy Condos.

“Be quiet!” Derrick said in a low but firm voice. “It’s bad enough you have no manners. I won’t have a screamer on my staff. At least, not in an official capacity.” He winked at her. Twice.

Annie screamed again, grabbed her purse and limped back towards the chain link fence with the crutch.

When five monks in orange robes jumped from the bushes, ambushed and surrounded her. They held hands in a circle and captured her in their peaceful “Here we go round the mulberry bush” prison. Monk Ears stood directly in front of her. He was tall, bald and had enormous ears. Hence his moniker. He motioned his right hand across his lips in the universal symbol for zip it. Annie took that opportunity to try and push past him. But Monk Buddha, chubby faced with a big belly whipped out a “No Trespassing, Ever!” sign and blocked her escape when her head bounced off it.

Annie clutched her forehead with the palm of her hand, “Trespassing? You think I’m friggin’ trespassing? Like I have nothing else better to do at midnight? I’ve been…  I’ve been mourning the death of my good friend, Dr. Derrick Fuller. I was meditating and simply lost track of the time.” She looked at her watch. “Oh my. I’m late for my full moon midnight madness Sierra Club hike, in the Santa Monica Mountains.”

She noticed the third monk was young, wide-eyed and trusting like a golden retriever puppy. Puppy Monk nodded like he bought her story. He was the weak link. Annie limped towards him. When she spotted blue, dead Derrick Fuller ambling towards her. She screamed again.

Puppy Monk broke the peace prison circle and clasped his hands over his ears. All the monks winced.

Derrick grinned. “This isn’t speed dating, Pumpkin, we just met. You’ve got no place to go, slow down. This is our courtship.”

She flipped off Derrick and rushed Puppy Monk.

But the monks regrouped, joined hands, hunkered down and she was pushed back.

Annie huffed and put a free hand on her hip. “Listen to me! I have to be at the hike because… because I am the chosen one. I am the Moon Whisperer. The one who howls at the moon. That’s what I’ve been doing this entire time. Practicing!” She looked at the monks’ faces. This time no one was buying her story.

Annie turned and saw that Derrick was now in the monk’s protective circle and leaning over her shoulder. He grinned and ran his dead fingers through her hair. “They don’t believe you. But no worries, Cupcake. I promise, I’ll take care of you - if you help me.”

“Still practicing!” She screamed and pulled/pushed Derrick out of her hair.

Derrick snickered. Since only Annie could see him, these spiritual goobers probably thought she was psychotic, or on crack. He laughed so hard that if his ribs were still real, he would have strained them.

Pierced Monk was tall and buff with multiple ear, eyebrow, lip and possible other piercings. He frowned at Annie and pressed his index finger firmly to his closed pursed lips in the international symbol for “Shhh.”

Definitely time for Annie to break out of this peaceful prison. If she could leave the Shrine, she’d ditch the dead blue ghost of Derrick. She eyed the monks, lunged towards them and went high. They anticipated, countered and stopped her. She went low; they were already there. She had a fleeting thought that the Green Bay Packers’ management should scout these guys. She retreated to the center of the ring, out of breath. How to get the hell out of Monk and Dead Guy Dodge? Think. Think. Packers. Football. Got it.

In reality, these monk guys weren’t just spiritual acolytes; they were athletes. How could a girl escape from athletes? Her first idea wouldn’t work – she had no money. The second solution was also unavailable - her drugs and alcohol were back at her apartment. Aah yes, it came to her - she’d sweet-talk them. She was pretty good at that. Yeah there.

“Look guys, I know about your vows.” She balanced on the crutch, stuck out one hip, put a finger in her mouth and sucked on it. She looked innocent, just a girl down-on-her-luck who needed manly rescuing. “I know you’re probably crabby ’cause you can’t talk and you’re sugar deprived and craving Doritos and M&Ms.” She fished around in her purse past the tampons, her hairbrush and found the soft yummy energy bar. Pulled it out and waved it high over her head slowly in front of the monks tempting them. “This rewards the first man, a gentleman, who lets me leave.”

Several monks looked at her oddly. Two stared at their feet. Puppy Monk blushed.

Annie looked up and saw she was waving a pack of feminine wipes in front of them.

She stuck the wipes back in her purse, grabbed the energy bar, this time checking to make sure that was indeed what she was waving. “I meant, this is for the first gentleman who lets me leave.”

Puppy Monk took the bait and reached for the bar.

She tossed it in the air and ran for the break in the monk firewall. Almost escaped when Pierced Monk snapped out his elbow. His forearm connected with the bridge of her nose and stopped her cold. The crunch rang through her head, into her ears, and ran down her spine. She hadn’t heard a crunch sound like that since her First Major Life Debacle. Oh shit. She stumbled backwards, grabbed her nose. Hopefully, it was just dislocated. Not broken or mangled or dead like…

She looked up and saw Silver Monk, probably in his seventies, with buzzed silver hair. He glared at Pierced Monk, shook his finger and admonished him.

Pierced looked embarrassed, but pointed to Annie and made the international sign for insane next to his head. Then he immediately bowed to Silver Monk, hands in prayer position at his heart.

Silver pointed to Annie. Pierced turned and bowed to her, repentant.

Derrick whispered to Annie. “I guess that means that you and I are partners, Cupcake. And you don’t even know what I’m planning yet. Does that turn you on?”

The hair on her arms stood up. “I plan to never see you or the color blue, again,” she replied and wiped bloody snot from her nose onto her shirtsleeve. She looked at Silver Monk and implored, “Please, sir. A moment.”

Silver nodded at her.

“I’m not screaming for my health. I’m terrified. There’s a ghost, here, in this circle. He’s tall, blue and isn’t my friend or yours. He wants something from me and I have to get out of here. You put his ashes here, so you deal with him. That is karma and that is fair.”

Silver thought for a moment and nodded at her. Looked at the other monks in the circle. They all nodded and everyone dropped their arms.

“Thank you,” she said, bowed to Silver, turned and limped off down the cedar path. Which meant that on her current course, she’d have to climb the damn fence, again, to leave this beautiful hellhole.

“You won’t leave me,” Derrick said. “You’re empathic. Probably intrigued, mystified, even aroused by the possibilities I’ve dropped in your lap. After all, how many empathics get to see and communicate with a powerful dead spirit?”

Annie paused and listened.

“I heard the gossip at my funeral,” Derrick said. “I know about the cyanide-laced cupcake and understand you’re a suspect in my untimely demise.”

“I knew nothing about you when you died,” she said.

Derrick smiled. “I also heard you were a talented pastry chef. But…” he put his hand to his ear. “Hmm. What’s that sound? Oh, the rumble of your promising business imploding because the gossipmongers labeled you, ‘The Cupcake Killer.’ Think about it, Annie. Stay with me, help me. In twelve years, you’ll be fifty. Do you want to be fifty with no money in the bank, no career and no husband?”

“After my stellar pick of my first husband, I’m not currently scouting number two. While I might be thirty-eight whole big years old, I’m still alive. Unlike you.”

“Work with me. When we bring my killer to justice, you’ll get a book deal or at least your own cable TV show – ‘Passing Under’ has a ring to it. This would re-establish your career. Really mean something.”

Annie yanked off her diamond engagement and wedding rings. “Yeah there. So did these.” She flung her sparkly wedding ice at Derrick’s buff blue naked chest. They flew through his man cleavage, struck his memorial plaque, bounced off it and sunk in the pond. “And one more thing,” she turned around and hopped over to Pierced Monk. “FYI, Mr. Peace and Love – don’t you ever accost a screaming woman who’s scared to pieces and attempting to flee on a bum ankle, ever again!”  She balanced on her crutch and kicked him with her good foot, square in his shin.

Pierced Monk blinked.

Yeah there and that was another thing a crutch was good for thought Annie, turned around and hobbled towards the Shrine’s front entrance.

The Observer heard Annie’s screams. Could only imagine what was going on behind that fence. Hoped it was bad. A black and white pulled up to the shrine’s front gate. The Observer watched two officers exit the car and race to the gate where a silver-haired monk met them. The monk appeared to reply to the officers’ questions silently and wrote on a pad of paper. The officers returned to their car and drove off. The Observer couldn’t believe it. Thirty seconds later, Dimwit hopped out supported by two monks, who helped her into her car. She revved the engine and drove off. Why hadn’t the cops arrested Dimwit? The plan was getting screwed up. The Observer would not allow that to happen.

Raisin’ the Dead

Description: Raisin cinnamon swirl bread glazed in fresh powdered sugar icing.

Appropriate Occasions: When all the alcohol and prescription drugs in the world can’t heal the pain, or help you sleep. When that dead person screwing with your mind and your life cannot be tolerated one second longer.

Best Served With: Determination. A book of magical spells. A slip of the tongue. A solid crutch – this could include friends, family, or that thing you limp with when you’ve sprained your ankle. All come in handy. All are keepers.

Special Note: Enjoying too many ‘Raisin’ the Deads’ could significantly add to your spread. You know what we mean. (Someone’s sweats shrunk so much at the Frisk & Fold that it appears Someone’s up two extra sizes. Not fair.)

ELEVEN

Tata Pancakes

The waiting room at St. Cecelia’s Breast Clinic was calm, clean and professional. It had Martha Stewart wallpaper, comfy love seats, cushy chairs, side tables, reading lamps and an abundance of used women’s magazines as well as the occasional Time and Newsweek. It was filled with women from all races and backgrounds who were primarily thirties and up. They pretended to read old copies of Glamour while they bit their nails and waited for their names to be called by a receptionist.

Behind the rosy granite counter, the receptionists tried their best to be as calm as possible and promote the air of, “No problem – it’s not the big C - it’s either baseline or fibrous.” For malpractice reasons, they couldn’t actually say those words.

Annie sat in the waiting room and flipped through women’s magazines. Her ankle was still bandaged, but she was done with the crutch. In her wait at St. Cecelia’s Breast Clinic she had learned how to seduce a man, reduce her gut, fake an orgasm, and/or have a real one even with a teensily endowed man. One of her fingers bled fresh red blood from where she picked on its nail. She wiped it on her dark blue jeans.

“Mrs. Piccolino. Mrs. Annie Piccolino?” a receptionist called.

Annie jumped. “Yes!” This couldn’t be as bad as her last trip to the doctor’s office.

The receptionist was an older African-American woman with a mane of braided salt and pepper hair. They walked down a sterile hallway filled with closed doors.

“My name is Lekisha, and this is your file. No worries,” she said and handed Annie a thin file folder.

A middle-aged female nurse walked past them carrying a stack of files. Annie recognized her. “Nurse Jennifer! The yoga and anxiety brochures helped. Thank you so much!”

Nurse Jennifer regarded Annie, confused. “You’re welcome, Mrs. …”

“Just call me Annie,” she said.

“We at St. Cecelia’s are one big family, Annie. Just here to help. Lekisha – heard your kid was kicking butt on the soccer field.”

Lekisha smiled. “Working hard and hoping for a scholarship, thanks.”

“We need to catch up. I’ll call you,” Nurse Jennifer smiled, squeezed Lekisha’s arm and walked off.

Lekisha pointed Annie to a door on the right side of the hallway. “Gown opens in the front. Hand your file to the tech who calls your name. Is this your first?”

“Yes,” Annie said and her hands shook slightly as she held the file.

“It’s no big deal. Just a baseline,” Lekisha said and smiled at her.

Annie returned her smile. She looked calm. Appeared serene. Was completely freaked out.

Annie’s gown was open in the front. Her nipples sported special markers that indicated which was her left breast and which was her right. She thought that was funny ’cause over the years no one she hung out with exhibited partiality between her breasts. Both had equal admirers. She looked around the official mammogram room filled with all its high tech machines. Everything looked clean, sterile and efficient. Please, how bad could this be?

A nice young tech named Elena pulled Annie’s right breast five inches past its normal dimensions and flattened it between two sections of a mammogram machine. Told her not to fiddle or wiggle, to just stay put.

Annie thought that the scientist that came up with this helpful torture device was both brilliant and sadistic. Maybe the CIA could replace water-boarding suspected terrorists with mammograms.

Elena said, “Okay?”

“Absolutely. No problems,” Annie said as sweat poured off her palms.

Elena cranked the mammogram machine completely closed and squeezed Annie’s breast to pancake proportions. Clicked off the images.

Annie wondered if her breasts might stay flattened forever. This would be a major bummer in her love life or bra-buying future. Maybe a past issue of Glamour in the waiting room had an article on this subject.

Elena ran out from behind the machines. “You’re doing perfect,” she said and released the helpful diagnostic/torture device, grabbed the same breast, rotated it onto a different angle and smashed it again.

When Derrick in his snappy thong materialized and squeezed Annie’s arm. “This is good sign, Cupcake. I need you around. I’m encouraged that you’re taking care of your health.”

Annie screamed.

Elena snapped, “I know it’s your first. Stay still, and we’ll be done super quick.”

“No!” Annie declared. “I need to go.”

“Just one more breast!” Elena ran out, switched Annie’s breasts, pulled the second one and squished it between the machine’s cold plates.

This Derrick thing was probably just a mental hangover brought on by the stress of pancake breasts. She could do this. “Yeah there,” Annie said and exhaled loudly.

“I was thinking Annie, where do we go from here? I need your help finding my killer. I won’t take no for an answer. Let’s negotiate a contract,” Derrick said.

“You’re supposed to be at the Shrine!”

“I know, but thanks to you and your fabulous spell, I’m here. The sooner you help find my killer, the quicker I can leave for the After-Life.”

“What shrine?” Elena clicked off more pictures.

Annie threw her one non-tortured hand up in the air. “Go to hell!”

Elena frowned. “Sorry, can’t. Stop moving. Let’s finish up and you are most likely past go and free for two more years.”

“I’m attached to you. I care about your future. Our future,” Derrick said as he walked behind Elena and checked out her ass.

Annie glared at him. “All you care about are tits and ass and money. I am not helping you with anything.”

“Sweetie, I do care about tits. Ass isn’t really my thing. And honestly, everyone cares about money,” Elena replied. “Don’t move!” she clicked off the rest of the images, ran out and released Annie’s breast from Dr. Franken-titty’s torture chamber. “You did great!”

Annie fled from the room.

The setting sun blasted through Annie’s front window like flashbulbs from a gang of paparazzi hunting down a young actress or socialite. But Annie wasn’t enjoying her sunset today, because it was truth time.

She looked at herself in her bathroom mirror, wiped a mascara smudge from under her left eye with a tissue. Teddy the cat sat on the bathroom sink and watched her every move. She unbuttoned her shirt, tossed it on the floor and looked in the mirror again. She wore a cute blush-colored demi-bra. Reached behind her back, unhooked the clasp and the bra slipped down her chest. She cupped her breasts with her hands, lifted and… dropped them. They bounced back, just fine.

Well, thank God! Dead Derrick was obviously a hallucination, a by-product of all the stress. Hometown Team Breasts score touchdown, six points–three a piece–and win the game!

Derrick appeared in the mirror behind her and ogled her chest. “Very nice, Cupcake. Not only bouncy tatas, but balls to boot. Impressive. Time to negotiate - it’s a win/win for both of us.”

“Oh,” she said, crossed her hands over her breasts and hissed. “You are evil. You ruined my marriage. I hate you. Go away!” He disappeared from the mirror, but she heard low laughter in the background.

Something sounded like metal jangling followed by several knocks on her front door. She frowned. “Derrick, if you think I’ll fall for that ghost chain-rattling and fake knocking on my front door thing, you are so wrong.” She strode, blinking in the blinding sunset light towards her the front door with her hands twisted behind her back while trying to re-hook her bra. “I’m done with you and your histrionics. I will never, do you understand the word, never? I will never, help find who killed you. Go ahead and materialize in mirrors, hang out at breast clinics and haunt me with scary sounds.”

She threw open her front door. A tall muscular figure appeared in the doorway, blurry from the light. More jangling sounds came from this apparition’s direction. “And while you’re knocking and jangling, Bucko, Needle-Dick, Pringle Prick, why don’t you just knock yourself out and bite me for all the good it’ll do you,” she said. Her eyesight adjusted and she realized that this tall male figure wasn’t…blue.

“Pringle Prick?” Detective Rafe Campillio said and stopped jangling the key ring in his hand. “The biting offer’s tempting, but I’d definitely lose my job. A couple of things to run by you,” he said as he tried to focus on her eyes and not her chest. “You have company?”

Derrick reclined on her couch. “Ooh. The hottie homicide detective from the scene of my demise. I like to watch. This could be fun.”

“No company, detective. Come on in,” she said and 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 clamped 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 said and he 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 said and 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, ’cause technically we’re still married.”

“Fair enough. Check out that chair.” Rafe pointed to the chair next to him. “Looks comfortable, park it,” he said and 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 towards 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 guy,” 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 said and 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. 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 there. 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 said and 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 several 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, 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 hadn’t already been dead, she’d kill him. It would have been 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 7 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 ’cause the mecca was completely lit up. Annie looked around the inside of the Big Books’ store 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. But 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, towards the government policy section located in a corner in the darkest closet like section of the store.

“What are you doing?” Derrick asked and 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 lipgloss 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 towards 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 said and 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, 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.

“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 said and 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. Frankly, I’m famished.”

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

“Story of my life.”

“I know. We’re always hungry,” Julia replied, 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 said and gestured towards 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 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.”

“Oh, please.”

“I’ll prove it. But, I need to touch you.”

She looked skeptical but held out her arm. He cupped her ass. She jerked away from him. “Pervert!”

“Hello Annie - head trauma? Besides, who cares if I broke the two hour rule,” Julia leaned away from her and whispered into her cell, “Emerg. I think you-know-who has lost you-know-what. In-N-Out Burger on Washington. Fifteen minutes.”

Julia accelerated her cute little hybrid car faster down Pacific Avenue. This street was three blocks from the beach and peppered with two million dollar falling to pieces fifties apartments shoved next to five star boutique hotels.

All these buildings flew past her way too fast, and Annie checked to make sure her seatbelt was securely fastened. “You think I’m making up this whole Derrick haunting me and my grandmother thing.”

“Shoot me for being tempted. Give me your hand,” Derrick said and stared compassionately into Annie’s eyes. “You’re empathic. I can prove myself to you. Please.”

“You leave my Nonna Maria alone.”

“Help me and I will.”

“Roger that Five O,” Julia said.

Annie shook her head in disbelief. For a moment, Derrick seemed sincere. Had he actually said the word please? She tentatively held out her hand to him. He took it and squeezed it, hard.

She winced and coughed/whispered. “It’s my hand, not your dick. Lighten up.”

Annie turned to Julia.

“I think you’re stressed. I think you’re overwhelmed. I think…”

Julia rolled her eyes.

Derrick leaned into the front seat and held Annie’s hand.

He closed his eyes. “I’m now picking up on your ability for obtaining empathic information.”

“You sound like Spock. This isn’t a Star Trek convention in the Poconos. Convince me.”

“I don’t have to convince you of anything,” Julia said, tossed her hair and accelerated through a yellow light. “I’ve known you forever.”

Derrick rubbed his temple with his free hand. “I wouldn’t want to be you, Annie. This empathic thing hurts. I have a headache. After today, you have to be the empath. I resign, it’s exhausting.”

“No deal until you convince me.”

“Fine,” Julia huffed. She blew the next light, which was definitely red and turned a sharp left onto Washington Blvd. She nearly missed a skate boarder, bicyclist, jogger and three cars that all jumped the mille-second the opposite light turned green.

Annie bounced off Julia’s arm. “Jeez, you’re supposed to be the law-abiding one.”

“How convincing will I be in court if I can’t convince you? We’re a minute away from the special sauce. Maybe the special sauce can convince you.”

“Hurry up!” Annie whispered/coughed to Derrick.

“I feel big breasts. Very, very nice. I feel, what from experience, I would describe as a sturdy somewhat scratchy uniform on someone burly. I hear, ‘Ooh, ooh!’ And the words, ‘No Ms., that’s not a paperback in my pants,’ Derrick said and paused. “Wow. Not only is that info kind of wild, but it’s all from you. You hadn’t accessed it yet.”

“All righty,” Annie said and her eyes narrowed. “When were you going to tell me you went past first base with Big Bookstore’s security guard? Julia.”

Julia screeched into the In-N-Out parking lot. “Oh. That. Didn’t plan… Who told you?” She turned bright red and broke into a sweat.

“I see purple,” Derrick said. “Annie, this is amazing. You could work for the FBI or the CIA. Although, right now, you work for me.”

“You were wearing a purple lace under wire bra.” Annie knew Julia liked lace and preferred a little extra support for her girls.

Julia jumped and her head hit her car’s ceiling. “Ow!” She yelled and pulled her car in between two parking spaces and straddled the white parking line.

A perfect parker behind them laid on the horn.

“Back off!” Julia hollered, reversed erratically, re-parked and shut off the engine.

“Purple bra. Second base, at the least with the security guard. Give.”

“Fine. Terence was… He’s gorgeous, sweet, and hot. I think he’s packing more than the standard issue weaponry if you know what I mean. He… wait a minute,” Julia frowned. “How do you know this? Are you being empathic with me? Stop it!” She jumped out of her car and slammed the door. Strode towards Grady, who waved at her cheery, from the front of the In-N-Out Burger entrance.

“Technically, no,” Annie replied and followed her. “Derrick told me.”

Derrick tagged along on her heels.

“I don’t believe you.” Nose in the air, Julia kept walking towards Grady who stood all smiley and relaxed next to the burger joint’s entrance.

Annie tried to keep up behind Julia. “Why would I lie?”

“Because we’re good at it. Just the small ones, not the big and hurtful kind. Besides, why can’t I have secrets? Why can’t I have the cute guy?”

Annie looked a little sad.

“One,” Derrick said. “Not your fault that Julia has low self-esteem about men. Two. She not only left phone number with the security guard, she also left her bra behind. An invitation to get asked back for repeats. A classic I Promise - You’ll Get the Guy and Score the Girl move. My eighth book in the I Promise series.”

“That’s disgusting,” Annie said.

“That book sold really well. That book paid for my pool,” Derrick replied as they reached the curb at the In-N-Out. “And my pool boy.”

Annie stuck out her tongue and pushed her finger down her throat. “Blech.”

Grady smiled, “What’s up?”

“She’s delusional and possibly bulimic,” Julia said, nodded at Annie and walked past them into the burger place.

Grady eyed Annie.

Annie shrugged. “She’s pissed ’cause Derrick told me she went past second base with a security guard she met, violated the two hour rule and I called her on it.” Annie and Derrick walked past Grady into the joint.

“Okay,” Grady nodded, then looked confused. He followed them inside towards the order counter. “But Derrick, as in Fuller, is dead.”

“Almost. Sort of. Unfortunately, he’s haunting both my grandmother and me. So, I’m involved right now,” she replied.

“Got it. Okay. Huh?”

Annie, Derrick, Julia and Grady sat at an outdoor picnic table in the parking lot next to the Spiffy Lube, a gas station and a giant discount store. The picnic table was packed with In-N-Out burgers, fries and drinks.

“You’re pregnant or not. You’re dead or alive,” Grady said, paused and took a bite from his burger. “Explain this Derrick kind-of-dead thing, please.”

Annie nibbled on a fry. “Derrick’s physically dead, but not spiritually or emotionally.”

“Go on,” Grady said as he pulled out his notebook from his backpack, flipped it open and scribbled. Some special sauce smeared onto the page.

“Hey, Grady,” Julia said. “If you made a notation next to each food smudge in your journal, it might add color to your work in progress. Make it really stand out from all the other UFP script submissions. Let’s see: pizza - red, guac - green, dip - dark red, french fry grease - light yellow and special sauce – orange.”

Grady frowned.

“Bra – purple,” Annie countered. “Hey, Grady. Ask Julia why she left her bra behind.”

Julia huffed.

“That’s the oldest trick in the book. Leave a little gift with purchase so he has an easy excuse to call back,” Grady replied.

“Derrick thinks because I’m empathic, I can help him find his killer quickly. With justice served and all, he can pass to the After-Life. Good for him and good for me, ’cause he’ll be out of my life and Nonna Maria’s, forever.”

Julia polished off her burger and slurped her Diet Coke. “Fine. So, who wanted Derrick dead?”

A fry hung out of Annie’s mouth. “Oh God, Julia. You believe me!”

“Of course I believe you. You had me at the purple bra and the lace bumped me over the edge. I couldn’t give in right away, or I’d forever be the purple pushover. Suck down that cholesterol stick and finish your Double-Double,” she said. “I need you strong and alert. You’re the point person. We need to make a list of who wanted this goober dead, quickly.”

“I’m right there with you, on the ‘quickly’ thing. Jeez, I’m stressed,” Annie said.

“Oh, this is so exciting! I’m visualizing your cable show now,” Derrick said.

“You’ll be even more stressed when the killer gets wind that you’re investigating,” Julia said. “First you’ll be a nuisance and then a target.”

Derrick thought, his brows knitted as much as the Bo-tox would allow. “She’s got something there. I must admit I broke a little more than wind before I died. My killer was probably angry. Could be a clue. Oh, my God,” Derrick said as a look of horror grew on his face. “Was it you, Annie? You were furious with me. Did you kill me?” He backed away from her. “Is my blood on your hands?”

“For the love of God, Derrick, shut up. I wish I had killed you, but someone much more prompt and organized beat me to it,” she said.

“Whoa! You’re talking with a completely dead guy?” Grady asked.

“Yes. Keep writing,” Annie said and turned to Julia. “I thought we were investigating?”

“We are,” Julia said. “But the killer is seriously deranged and he’ll focus on you.”

“Huh. Maybe there’s a spell or an incantation or…” Annie replied.

Grady scribbled faster on his notepad.

“Dead grandma in purgatory, Cupcake.” Derrick grinned.

“Drop me at home. I’ve got a list to make.” Annie rolled up her fast-food bag and tossed it like a football into the garbage can. “Hail Brett Favre, the traitor. I’ll solve this crime ASAP and get rid of Derrick and traitors, forever.”

It was dark and foggy when Annie walked up the sidewalk to her apartment with Derrick following close behind. Her cell rang. She picked it up and looked at the screen. Number Unavailable, it read. She answered, “Hello?”

“Annie, do not hang up on me. It’s Mike. We have to talk. We shouldn’t be separated. You have to talk to me.”

She regarded her phone, livid.

Mike continued, an urgent tone in his voice. “We’ve been set up. Don’t do this to us. You’re ruining our marriage and our lives, for no reason.”

“How dare you say that to me,” Annie said. “My ass hung off an exam table, my legs were in stirrups and strangers poked my privates when I saw pictures of you cheating. Don’t you friggin’ tell me I’m ruining frosting on someone’s cake, let alone our marriage. I love, I mean loved you. I’m figuring things out. Leave me alone Mike,” she said and hung up.

Derrick regarded her, concern on his face, “Cupcake?”

“How did Mike get my phone number? I changed it the day I got the photos.”

“Oh,” Derrick said. He didn’t have a snappy answer. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” she said. “I want to know who killed you and get you out of my life, as soon as possible.”

Sparks from burning logs in her fire pit wafted into the night air. Annie sat next to it huddled in a thick blanket, holding a pad of legal paper and a pen.

Derrick stood slightly bent over with his buttock next to the flames. “Let’s go inside your hovel. I swear I’m catching a chill.”

“Oh buck it up, weenie. Who wanted you dead?”

“People loved me.”

“We’re not looking for people that loved you. We’re searching for the ones that wanted you dead, cold, in the grave. Itsy-bitsy cremains. Got it?”

“You don’t have to be graphic. Fine. Tawny. My current wife, now my widow.”

“So Tawny’s at the top of your list?” Annie asked.

“I don’t know who’s on the top. I simply know who’s the most obvious,” Derrick said. “Let’s call Tawny! It’s Thursday. She generally does a late yoga class, joins her friends at Restaurant Raw afterwards. Then hits the White Castle sliders and cracks open the boxed chardonnay when she gets home. Call her, now!”

“Number?”

Derrick told her and she dialed on her cell. He leaned into her, his ear next to hers as they listened.

A recording picked up. The woman’s voice was slow and sing-songy. She sounded medicated. She sounded hammered. “Hi. (Hiccup.) You’ve reached Missus Doctor Tawny Fuller. Dr. Derrick Fuller’s widow. (Heavy sigh.) I’m probably grieeeeeeving right now and can’t make it to the phone. (Burp.) So, you calling people. All you calling people just leave me your name, number thingies, the name of your pub, pubic, publicists or your press-ed association. And your num-bers! Someone – no don’t suck on my toes - call you back as soon possibly during such a time difficult. (Big sob and another hiccup.) In the meantime, live on, Derrick. (Pause.) Is this fucking thing off?”

Annie was torn, but did it. “Hi, Mrs. Tawny Fuller. So sorry about you losing your husband. I know what that feels like. My name is Annie and I really need to talk to you about who might have disliked Derrick and wanted him dead. I’m doing a little investigation for some of his, uh, close friends. Please call me at 310/555-8181. Thanks. Hang in there,” she said and hung up.

“Tawny sounded genuinely messed up, Derrick. Kind of, sad,” Annie said.

“Sad like a rattle snake. Tawny might be reluctant to talk right now, especially if she killed me.”

“Back to your murder suspect list.”

“Okay. Barry Cooperman, my manager, was apoplectic when I fired him. Obviously, the stupid heckler who shot me. Bill-what’s-his-name and anyone in his family. When I was seven years old, there was this kid who was upset that I got on first-string soccer team and he didn’t. Big deal. I pilfered a couple of twenties from my mom’s wallet and slipped it to the assistant coach. Duh. Of course I’d make the team. Kid’s name was Walter something. I think he’s an investment banker on Wall Street now.” Derrick leaned back over the fire and rubbed his hands together.

Annie scribbled everything onto her legal pad. “You need to think about more recent enemies.”

“There’s not that many. Can’t we start investigating? I’m cold. I’m tired. I want to go to the After-Life.”

“I want, I want, I want. Well, Mr. Whiny, I want a more thorough list. That way we can eliminate most of your suspects, and spot a pattern or clue that possibly slipped under our radar.” She looked up only to have her nose up the crack of Derrick’s blue moons. “Blech!” she said, held her nose and boomeranged back in her chair. “We need to figure out a way to put some clothes on you. I can’t take this.”

He turned and snapped his fingers at her. “Who’s whiny now? Stop slacking and get back to the list.”

She rubbed her temples. “I’m in hell. I’m definitely in hell.”

Derrick paced. “There were a couple of affairs.”

“Shocker. Slap me on the ass and call me spanky.”

Derrick looked intrigued. “Really? I mean – wow. You offering, that’s incredibly thoughtful.”

“No! Think. Concentrate – suspects. The list of your murder suspects.”

The sun rose and sifted through the beach fog that blanketed Annie’s patio. Her head rested on her shoulder and she snored a little.

Derrick did jumping jacks. “I was in my late twenties and there was that thing with the politician’s daughter. I once slept with my dumpy accountant so she would fib on my tax return and I’d get a bigger refund. Hey–wake up!”

She did with a start and a snort. Looked at her watch. “Thanks for the whole half hour of sleep. I’m going inside. Do. Not. Follow. Me,” she said. Got up slowly and walked to her tangerine kitchen door.

“But I’m hungry and cold, and …”

“You’re dead and you’re hyper.” Annie opened the door and reflexively pushed Teddy the cat away from it. “You were a Chihuahua in a past life. If you’re lucky, you’ll be one in your next. Later, Dude,” she said. Walked into her apartment and slammed the tangerine door in his face.

“Okay.” Derrick did leg kicks. Like the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall. They burned fat, nailed his cardiovascular workout and totally toned his lower body. “My first girlfriend, Erin. We were twelve. She got mad when I cheated on her with my first boyfriend, her cousin Eric.” Then there was…”

Annie slept on her couch. Teddy sat on her pillow and kneaded her head with his enormous paws. The clock on her bookshelf read three p.m.

Derrick knelt next to Annie and poked her in the ribs. “No one sleeps this late. Jeez, we’ll miss Oprah.”

She stirred slightly. “Oh, that head massage was lovely. Thank you. I must have nodded off. Boy, you wouldn’t believe the dream I had.”

Derrick hollered into her ear. “Wake up! Time to work!”

Her eyes slid open, spotted Derrick and closed again. “Damn.”

Annie’s hair stuck out like Don King’s and she still wore the cruddy pajamas from the night before. She sucked down a cup of coffee in her kitchen.

Derrick lay on his back on her living room floor and did twisting sit-ups. “I completed our list. I put stars next to the most likely suspects. What have you done today? Sleep. Oh right. Snored, cleared your sinuses, hacked a little and slept some more. Make a call.”

She picked up the legal pad of paper, flipped through pages and pages of suspects and notes that she had made the night before. “To whom do I make the call?”

“Are you blind? The five star suspects are the first on our list. The four star, three and two follow in order.”

She looked at the pages. No asterisks and no stars. “There’s nothing here, Derrick.”

“Show it to me,” he said.

She did.

Derrick looked at the front page and frowned. “I spent hours writing recommendations, stars and asterisks. All specifically color coated for the individual suspects.” He pouted. “That was the most work I’ve done in years. I didn’t ask to be dead, you know. I was having a pretty decent go on earth.”

“Get over it,” she said. There were some things that even a good-hearted girl just couldn’t take. A dead whiny guy was one of them. “So you can’t manipulate Sharpies. Big deal. We’ll sign you up for dead guy pre-school. Now pick a five or four star suspect and give me a phone number.”

“Fine.” Derrick sniffed. “Barry Cooperman, my former manager. 310/555-4242.” Derrick lay on his back on Annie’s living room floor and did more sit ups. “Maybe I’m depressed. Need to work out more – endorphins, you probably know, are nature’s anti-depressants.”

Annie sat on the couch and dialed. “Hello. My name is Annie Graceland, and I’d like to speak with Mr. Cooperman.”

“Today’s assistant, tomorrow’s mogul. First, ask for Cooperman’s assistant’s name,” Derrick said.

“What is this regarding?” a young harried male voice on the other end of the line asked.

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Troy. What’s this regarding?”

“The untimely demise of Mr. Cooperman’s former beloved client, Dr. Derrick Fuller. I know they had a long, mutually satisfying professional relationship, and I’d like to ask–”

“Interview,” Derrick coached. He now did push-ups and grunted.

Teddy the cat stared at him slit-eyed from a safe distance across the room on top of a bookcase.

“I’d like to interview Mr. Cooperman for…”

“For your doctorate thesis in psychology at pick-your-choice university. Ask Troy something personal that’s non-confrontational.” Derrick flicked Annie in the forehead with his thumb and index finger.

Annie shot Derrick her death ray. Unfortunately, it had zero effect on him ’cause he was already dead. “I’d be honored to interview Mr. Cooperman for my Psych Ph.D. thesis on successful business managers and how they effectively deal with narcissistic clients. Mr. Cooperman’s spent years dealing with obnoxious self-centered individuals and would be an enormous help. Might I add Troy, you, are doing a stellar job of helping your boss ward off the loonies during the media frenzy surrounding the death of Dr. Fuller, who some say, had an ego the size of an elephant’s behind.”

Annie smirked at Derrick.

He smirked back at her. “You’ve noticed my perfect buttocks. Jealous?”

Troy sighed. “Give me your name and number, Miss. But honestly, Mr. Cooperman’s swamped, and won’t be available for interviews with academic publications for at least three months.”

“Thanks, Troy. You’re a great guy and will be a very competent manager yourself some day.”

“Thank you,” Troy said and his voice lowered to a whisper. “You didn’t hear this from me. The recently fired manager of a former femme fatale actress, who was known for her ‘basics’, would be a great interview for your thesis. Good luck.” Troy hung up.

“I tried,” Annie said.

“Hello? You just earned a new liaison and got a fresh lead. You scored,” Derrick replied as he lunged and clenched his butt muscles into two rock-hard, smallish volleyballs.

Even though only Annie could see him, unless she wanted to gag or hurl multiple times per day, she’d have to come up with some sort of solution to deal with this ninety-five percent naked butt-clenching dead blue guy. Perhaps she could be more tolerant, peaceful. Accept his nudity inclinations and exercise obsession. “Hey Dorko - you really think that this exercise matters with you being dead and all?”

“Oh, right. So I stop exercising and turn into a porker. You’d probably find that funny, but I don’t think so.”

“Fine. Exercise until you’re blue in the face. Oops. You already are. Hah!”

“You’re irritating. I can deal with that. Time we get creative. Do you have any wigs?” Derrick asked.

Wigs, Annie thought? “Only one that’ll cover your big blue butt. Oh, is that cellulite I see?”

Usual Suspects

Description: Take a night off from baking and join your friends for the best fast-food available in the area. Calories don’t count. Friendships do. Share your dreams as well as your fears. Bitching appropriate. Alcohol encouraged. Screw the cholesterol.

Appropriate Occasions: List-making. Cold calls. Creative lying.

Best Served With: Contracts. Restraining Orders. In-N-Out Burgers. Supporting your friends’ efforts and dreams. Purple push-up bras.

THIRTEEN

A Tea Party

Unfortunately Annie had to wear the big, blonde, ten-pound Dolly Parton wig that she procured for a former Halloween party (and Mike’s occasional blonde fantasy), to Barry Cooperman’s Century City office. Technically it was almost Century City ’cause it was on a side street off of Santa Monica Boulevard (not Avenue of The Stars), in a three-story brick walk-up because the piece of crap elevator was broken.

Dolly Annie wearing four inch stilettos, black leather hot pants, fishnet stockings and an amply padded leather bustier wobbled up the building’s stairs that featured worn gray carpet and dingy walls. “This is killing my ankle,” Annie said. “Why do I have to wear this ridiculous disguise?”

Derrick bounced up and down two stairs to her every one. “Because Barry’s into soft S & M and you’re supposed to be a foreign actress seeking local representation. Therefore, you have to look the part.”

He acted so perky Annie thought he’d downed a couple of espressos. She huffed up another half a flight and paused. She reached down and rubbed her ankle. “Jesus,” she said.

“Well, you won’t have to be that spectacular, but Barry will be looking for new talent. I’ve obviously left an enormous hole in his roster.” Derrick said.

Annie stood in Barry Cooperman’s small, tidy, self-advertising reception area where photos lined the dark wood paneled walls. All these framed photos featured Barry sporting different dos. Some showed a younger Barry with thinning hair. Those were juxtaposed next to more recent photos of Barry with funky toupees and weaves as he shook the hands of celebrities and politicians.

Barry’s assistant, Troy, was barely twenty-five, but sported under eye circles worthy of a man three times his age with multiple alimony and child payments. Troy sat behind his small ergonomically designed desk and regarded Annie skeptically.

“Now would be the time to work it, Cupcake,” prodded Derrick as he stood behind Troy and rubbed his shoulders.

“Yeah there,” Annie said and launched her rehearsed lie complete with a fake accent. “I am Irena Dragoslava and I meet Mister Barry Coopermanski at film festival in Zagreb, Croatia. I am actress with plenty good success in my country. The very kind Mr. Coopermanski told me to pook ups him when I come to America. So,” Annie said and threw her hands up in the air. “Am here. And I pooks.”

“Yes, Ms. Dragoslava. Please leave us your contact information, headshot, reel and we’ll get back to you,” Troy said. His eyes crossed as Derrick massaged his shoulders. “In your country, do people have tight shoulders?” he asked Annie/Irena. “Like, you know, from the stress? My shoulders are so tight. Why am I even sharing this with you? I apologize. Your reel?”

“Reel in immigration. Stuck. Mr. Coopermanski said headshots and bio could facilitate work at 4:30 p.m. I very much like talk with Mr. Coopermanski. Ask him for only five American minutes, please?”

“No can do, Ms. Dragoslava.”

“Okey dokey,” Annie said. Thank God. She swiveled on her four-inch heels and tottered towards the door.

Derrick jumped into her path and held out one hand in the official crossing guard, ‘Stop’ position. “No-key dokey.”

She stopped. Wobbled.

“This is the time to toss your golden locks and let the boy get a look-see at your legs, which are pretty good, might I add,” Derrick said as he alternately checked out Annie’s legs and a large framed photo of he and Barry on the wall of fame.

“Fine,” she said between clenched teeth. She turned back, approached Troy slowly and attempted slinking. It might not have appeared to be slinking, more like she had a bad hip and one knee replacement, but she was in very tall heels with an iffy ankle, after all.

Troy’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?” he replied.

“No. Scusay meya.” Annie looked at Troy, fluttered her eyelashes, hoisted her foot up on his desk and displayed her relatively average length, albeit shapely leg. She bent over, grabbed Troy’s face with both hands and squeezed his cheeks. “I vant to copulate with Mr. Coopermanski.”

“Let me see what I can do, Ms. Dragoslava,” Troy said, his face inches from Annie’s leg. A hot female leg was still a turn on for a straight guy no matter what age. Troy was that guy, but also slightly unsure of how to proceed.

“Danke,” Annie said and tossed a fake dusty, cat hair-embedded curl in his face. Then two more.

Troy sneezed uncontrollably. “Sorry.” He extricated himself from Annie’s grip, stood up and ran five feet to a small closet. He sneezed again. “Darn!” He pulled the door open. Searched frantically up and down the shelves filled with files, folders, reels and ink cartridges. “Where are the tissues?” he asked and sneezed. “I hope it’s not a cold. Can’t be allergies. The only thing I’m really allergic to is cats. A moment, please.” Troy ran out the front door of the office.

Brilliant. A perfect opportunity to snoop.

“Snaps. Check what’s on his desk,” Derrick said.

Annie glared at him. “Just because you’re the annoying dead guy does not mean you get to order me around.” She hurriedly shuffled through Barry’s notes, files, and zeroed in on the Daytimer. Flipped through and noted that each Friday was starred, “8 p.m. – T.” She flipped backwards through the Daytimer – no address. Damn.

“Where does Barry have tea every Friday at 8 p.m.?”

“Barry doesn’t drink tea. Only coffee,” Derrick said as he checked out the photos on the wall. “But he does get a massage every Friday at 8 p.m.”

“Where?”

Derrick laughed.

The Observer slouched in the driver’s seat of the car parked about half a block from Annie/Dimwit’s apartment. Through the sunset’s diminishing light, the Observer watched the blonde in tramp attire limp into Annie’s apartment. Was Dimwit associating with hookers? That would be interesting.

Now it was dark and the car’s clock read 7:20 p.m. The Observer yawned. What started out as a little investigating was becoming, tiresome. The Observer watched Annie exit her apartment, talking to herself, and walk to her car. The Observer held up the small voice-activated recorder and whispered in hushed tones. “Where is Dimwit going? Better not have anything to do with Derrick Fuller. Fuller. Fuller.”

Annie’s Cabrio pulled out of its parking spot. The Observer started the engine and followed from a safe distance.

The occasional streetlight shone dimly on gritty downtown L.A. Koreatown streets. This neighborhood was a far cry from the manicured pristine Santa Monica community. Annie and Derrick drove past signs on billboards, stores and restaurants. They were all labeled Korean, Vietnamese, and Thai.

“Why do you still bake and carry, when no one’s buying from you?” Derrick asked.

“Passion. Determination. My dream. An unexpected opportunity to impress a possible client. Everyone’s quest for the perfect brownie?” Annie said. “Besides you never know when a dessert will make the difference between having a good time or a bad one. Or nipping potentially dangerous situations in the bud. Well-crafted desserts have that power. Just like a sexy chick. Why are you still here when you’re obviously dead?” Annie asked. She was dressed in cute sweats and a vintage Rolling Stones Sticky Fingers concert t-shirt.

Derrick crossed his arms and pouted.

“You know we’ve got to work on your wardrobe. The thong will not be tolerable forever.” Annie said.

“It’s Pucci.”

“It’s creepy. Maybe you don’t need my help to find your killer. Maybe you’re more powerful as a dead guy than you give yourself credit for.”

“I think that’s the first nice thing you said to me.” Derrick smiled.

“Oh please, you slept with my husband. I’m not going to slap you on the back and bake you a peach pie.”

Derrick tried to remember what her husband looked like.  He drew a blank. He’d really like a peach pie. This whole going cold turkey with no food thing was as bad as any diet he’d ever been on.

According to the large time clock at the local high school campus it was 7:50 p.m. and there was still thick pedestrian traffic. People of all ages and ethnicities waited patiently for buses on street corners, grabbed a deal at the local X#6&*, aka Korean Shop and Go, and walked to their destinations.

“Look.” Annie pointed at the pedestrians. “People walking in Los Angeles. I think we should call the news. Where’s the spa? I think we passed the spa.” She hit a pothole and her car bounced, hard.

Derrick frowned. “You need new shocks on this piece of shit. Couldn’t Mike have sprung for a nicer car?”

She frowned. “You and Mike never shared pillow talk?”

Derrick frowned.

“Don’t feel left out, ’cause Mike didn’t share that with me, either. By the way, I never spent his money and my car’s not a piece of shit. It’s timeless, cool and in a few more years will be vintage. Frankly, I’ve had enough shocks the past couple of weeks to last me five friggin’ lifetimes. Thank God I take anti-oxidants. Where’s the damn spa?”

“On the right. Park on the street.”

Annie looked, but saw nothing except plain storefronts, an unassuming Thai restaurant and one building that had a green awning but nothing written on the door or windows. “There’s nothing here,” she said

“To your virgin eyes,” he replied.

“My eyes are still alive.”

“Brag, brag. Pull over.”

Annie and Derrick stood in a small waiting room painted a light pukey shade of violet and furnished with several worn couches that probably saw some action in their younger days. Strange music played from small speakers mounted high on the walls. The vocalist was a soprano, the words were in Thai and the music attempted lilting, but was more on the screechy side. Annie frowned and rubbed her head.

“Barry gets his weekly massage, here?”

Five guys and two cute little young Thai women in skimpy mini-skirts turned and stared at Annie. “Yes,” they replied in unison.

“I asked the same question when he treated me one Friday night,” Derrick said. “You can go anywhere, Barry. Why this little dump in downtown L.A.? Ambience, he replied. He loved the ambience. And the tea.”

Plastic plants were shoved into corners and two large wall signs read, “Thai Massage Spa – We refuse services to anyone who asks for Special Services. No Special Services!! You Cop – You go home. Now!”

Annie noticed that Thai Massage Spa’s patrons were men of all ages and ethnicities. For the most part, they sat quietly on the couches and waited for their treatment sessions. She wondered why several of these guys snickered when they looked at those “No Special Services” signs.

“I’m getting a slightly weird, um, empathic vibe from this place,” Annie said to Derrick and looked longingly at the front door. “Maybe we should go home. Now.”

“That’s not empathic. You’re just reading the signs. We’re here for clues or confessions. Remember grandma in the Early Bird goes to Heaven first Catholic Smorgasbord?”

A beefy biker with multiple tats and an emaciated guy holding a skateboard stared at Annie and leered.

Skateboard guy moved first. He sniffed in her direction. “You smell like cookie dough or brownies. You smell like someone I know.”

“Yes, Sir. That’s right. I baked brownies earlier today and I have a spare one right here.” Annie shoved her hand in her purse. “Do you see what I mean about the power of packing a spare dessert, Derrick?” she whispered, pulled out the bagged brownie and handed it to the skateboard guy. “My treat. Enjoy.”

“Mmm.” Skateboard guy leaned close to her, buried his nose in her hair and sniffed.

Annie recoiled. Suddenly her hair felt oily, dirty, filthy and riddled with crawly creatures. She scratched her head, pulled and yanked on strands of her hair. “Something’s wrong with my hair. I’m itchy. Maybe dust mites from the wig?” No, dammit, another empathic hit. This time from the skateboarder who probably hadn’t washed his hair in six years. “Ew, ew! I really don’t want to be here,” she said.

“Hang on,” Derrick said. “Help is on her way.”

The skateboarder leaned in for another whiff. “I know who you remind me of – Betty Crocker. My mom told me if I was a good boy, Mrs. Crocker would leave me a treat. If I was a bad boy, uh-oh, I’d get a spanking. I’ve been a bad boy, Mrs. Crocker. Hee, hee!”

“Bye-bye,” Annie said. She whipped turned and bolted towards the door. But Derrick reached it before her, his arms crossed in an attempt to block her escape.

A tiny but tough white-haired Asian woman burst through an interior doorway covered in polyester curtains. She grabbed the skateboarder with her gnarled hands and squeezed his shoulders in a death grip. He dropped to his knees and yelped. She cuffed him on his ears and yelled at him in Thai. “XY**#asb. No massage for you! You leave – never come back!” She pushed him out the door that led onto the street.

Annie stood in that purple waiting room watching her hands shake.

“That’s Yang,” Derrick said. “She’s the manager of the joint.”

The other guy patrons sat very straight and tall on the dilapidated couches. None of them looked at Yang because none of them wanted to incur her wrath.

Yang bowed to Annie, hands pressed together at her heart. “Sorry, Miss. Very sorry. But I see dark eye circles, lines, droopy skin.” Yang poked Annie’s face. “You stressed. You need Thai massage. Good for stress.”

“So now I have shaky hands, droopy facial skin, dark eye circles and this whole experience still sucks,” Annie whispered to Derrick.

“Yang’s pushing her services and except for the eye circles you don’t look that bad. Tell Yang you’re friends with Barry Cooperman and you want the back room massage.”

Hands clasped at her heart, Annie bowed back to Yang. “Yes, I’m stressed. I’m also friends with Barry Cooperman and I want the back room massage.”

Yang looked confused. “No back room massage for you. Front room massage – much better for women. Come with me. Special crème. You look years younger. You love,” Yang said as she grabbed Annie’s wrist and pulled her towards the polyester curtains.

“Great!” Annie said.

“No,” Derrick snapped as he grabbed Annie’s other wrist and pulled in her the opposite direction.

Annie hovered, suspended between the two; the Yin and Yang.

“You’re here to discover who killed me,” Derrick insisted. “Not to relax your stressed shoulders, or your overly pronounced worry lines. Tell Yang you want to be next to Barry, in the back room. Slip her a twenty.”

Annie grumbled but reached in her purse. “Thank you, Mrs. Yang.” Annie bowed to her again. “But Mr. Cooperman really recommended the back room,” she said and slipped her a twenty.

Yang sighed, but pocketed the cash. She led Annie through the curtained doorway, past rows of treatment cubicles where pairs of shoes were lined up on the thin red worn carpeted floor in front of each little treatment area. Polyester curtains, not walls, separated the areas. Annie  heard a couple oohs, uhs and a few grunts that emanated from these therapeutic cubicles. The trilling Thai music piped even louder here. She clamped her hands over her ears.

Boy, this massage had better be good, she thought. Between the obvious stresses of the past several weeks, the insufferable irritation of Derrick haunting her, the ten-pound Dolly Parton wig and the incredibly annoying music, she was fighting a monster headache.

They reached a thick door outfitted with a keypad. Yang entered the number combination and it clicked open. She ushered Annie inside a small corridor with three heavily draped and cordoned treatment areas. She pointed to the first cubicle, pulled the curtains open, and motioned Annie inside.

The curtained room was about six by eight feet. A thin futon laid on a two-foot tall platform carpeted with industrial red. A wooden rod suspended from the ceiling ran the length of the room. Annie realized this section of the Thai Massage Spa was serenely quiet. There was no annoying bad soprano music. She rubbed her temples briefly. Joy. She turned to Yang. “Thank you.” They bowed to each other.

On the floor facing the cubicle two over from hers was a pair of black spit polished Gucci men’s loafers. She pointed to the loafers and whispered, “Barry Cooperman’s?”

“Yes. Enjoy back room massage,” Yang said and left.

Annie lay on her stomach on the saggy futon. She wore a threadbare pair of men’s boxers and a little smock with one ancient velcro closure that didn’t close in the back. Didn’t matter ’cause the smock was wide open and a young Thai woman who introduced herself as Madge, slathered her in enough oil that she suspected she was a chicken headed for the fryer. Madge rubbed her sore tight back and shoulder muscles with gusto. Ooh. Annie thought this was the nicest thing that had happened to her in weeks, and sighed contentedly.

“You’re supposed to investigate. Don’t get comfortable,” Derrick said as he crouched on the floor against the wall, a foot away from her.

“My neck is killing me, my upper back is stiff, a complete stranger told me that my skin’s droopy and I’m exhausted. Don’t you dare tell me not to get comfortable.”

Madge grabbed Annie’s ankle, pulled her leg and stretched it high up in the air about three feet over her ass.

“Huh,” Annie grunted. Madge latched onto her other ankle and stretched her other leg. At that moment, Annie decided she should be more open to change. Shouldn’t judge everyone on appearances and definitely ignore the weird feelings that happened in her own body when she got an empathic hit. Maybe after tonight, she’d move to Vegas and join Cirque de Soleil.

Loud groaning emanated from a nearby cubicle. Annie turned her head and stared at the curtain. Good God. What was Barry doing in there?

Madge stabbed something sharp and piercing between her shoulder blades. Annie jumped and squeaked.

“Back muscles tight. Stress.” Madge pushed and rubbed harder. “You ask for back room massage, right?”

Annie gritted her teeth. “Yes.”

“Madge help,” she said and stepped onto Annie’s hamstrings. Embedded her slender, piercing toes deep in the muscles as she lifted Annie by her shoulders, and stretched her backwards towards her butt.

“Uh-oh,” Annie said as an image of herself breaking into two, three or four pieces flashed through her head. Her hamstrings would be on the futon. Her butt and torso would be severed, spouting blood and scattered throughout the rest of the treatment cubicle. Based on her luck from the last several weeks, her head would most likely be found up her ass.

The moaning in Barry Cooperman’s cubicle grew louder. Annie responded with a few groans of her own.

Derrick frowned. “You two sound like a duet from the Call of the Wild.”

“Go. Away.”

Madge frowned. “You no like?”

“Love this, Madge. I’ll get massages from you, forever. I’ll be a loyal customer. No matter where you practice. Koreatown, Venice, Pasadena. Get a gig in Brentwood. That would be awesome. Where you go, I will follow.”

“I move to Wisconsin next week. Internet marriage.”

“Huge congrats. We’ll spread the love long distance. Do send me pics of your future kids in their super cute minus forty wind-chill snowsuits.”

Barry moaned again, loud and long.

Suddenly Annie felt a strange tingling in her feet. She wracked her brain and tried to identify the sensation. Her feet felt – sore? No. Her feet felt – cramped? Nope. She tried to look at her feet, but logistically that was tough considering she was still lying on her stomach and Madge was now walking on her back while she held onto the overhead wooden rod. “Ow. Ooh. Aah.” Annie felt like she’d been walked on a lot recently. She was tired of being walked on. The sensation in her feet escalated.

She concentrated. What was it? Years ago, during her Life Debacle #8, Carson, her brother the chiropractor, taught her about radicular pain. Radicular pain occurred when you had a problem in a spinal area that pushed on a nerve root or a muscle and then shot pain into your arm, or leg. But the sensation originated from a completely different part of your body. That had to be what was going on in her feet. Radicular pain. Totally made sense.

So why was that stupid song, “I’m too sexy for my…” playing in her head? Didn’t make any sense. Images of strappy sandals and flip-flops and chunky heels flashed through her brain like a slide show. Huh? She’d never been a shoe girl. Her money went into acting lessons for Mike, ingredients for her blossoming bakery business, and once in a while a new pair of sweats.

When Barry’s therapist sang in that lilting, headache throbbing, Wayne Newton Vegasy thing gone badly, tone. Through the singing, Annie heard it.

“Thwack thwack thwack thwack thwack,” sounds emanated from Barry’s cubicle. He grunted appreciatively. Repetitively.

Annie identified the sensations in her feet. They felt - sexy.

“Better talk to Barry, soon. Unless you want to do the blonde wig and fishnet thing again,” Derrick said, looked smug and rubbed his hands.

“Thwack thwack thwack thwack thwack.”

Annie frowned. Her feet twitched and undulated to the music and the thwacking sounds. Her feet had a life of their own. It was probably an empathic hit, but what if it was a weird neurological disease. She broke into a sweat. Probably another peri-menopausal hot flash. Joy. She’d end up a thinly disguised hormonal character with a rare neurological disease on House. She fanned her face. “Madge. Water, please? Thank you.”

“Yes Miss,” Madge said and ran off.

Annie pushed herself onto her knees, and pulled open the curtain separating the cubicle next to her. She saw…

Nobody.

“Thwack thwack, thwack.”

She tried to stand up, but her feet weren’t working. She crawled across the second cubicle over the futon, and reached another set of polyester trying to be silk curtains.

“Ooh. Aah. Oh. Yes,” Barry groaned from behind that curtain.

“Thwack thwack thwack.”

Annie grimaced. The sounds conjured images that included all sorts of actions that could produce “thwacking,” sounds. But one special favor came to mind. She heard Madge arrive back in her cubicle with water. “Miss Annie?”

Barry howled.

Enough! Annie crawled on her knees, ripped open the last curtain and saw –

An iPod hooked up to speakers played the Thai music. Next to it Barry Cooperman laid on his back, covered in towels and sheets, except for his feet. A pretty young Thai girl vigorously rubbed them and sang along to the music. The energetic foot massage made distinctive thwacking sounds.

“Oh!” Annie said as she lost her balance and fell forward on Barry across his lap. Her butt was up in the air in the paper-thin men’s boxers. Her feet flapped uselessly.

Barry hollered as his head and torso reflexly popped off the futon when Annie landed on him.

Barry’s cute Thai girl therapist screamed and dropped his feet.

Annie tried to push herself off Barry. But in the upright position, his stomach bulged and cemented her onto his lap. She screamed.

Madge poked her head into the cubicle and frowned. “Manimal!” Madge said and threw the glass of water on Barry. Then she screamed.

Derrick dangled from the overhead balance rod in the adjacent stall and giggled.

“You okay, Tea?” Barry asked.

Barry’s Thai therapist, Tea, threw her hands in the air, howled and ran off.

“Who the hell are you?” Barry asked and glared at Annie.

Annie struggled to get up, but could only perch on one elbow as she turned and looked at him. “I’m the woman who wanted to be happily married, have a family and a career. Unfortunately, that’s not happening,” she said, struggled some more and flip-flopped onto his chest, face up. “So, I’ve recently changed my mind and decided that now, I’m the woman who wants a little relaxation, some respect and non-droopy skin. Is that too much to ask?” She asked, magically regained use of her feet, pushed herself to standing, and stomped one foot.

Barry eyed Annie up and down. “At least you’re cute. Except for those eye circles. Get rid of that eye circle thing and you’ve got something going for you.”

“Screw cute. Did you kill Dr. Derrick Fuller?”

Barry chuckled. “Oh dear. You’re one of Derrick’s Darlings? I really wish I had, kiddo. Wish I had.” He said and pushed himself to standing. His love handles: top ones, bottom things, front back and squishy ones peeked between the crevices of his sheets.

Annie blinked and decided the prudent course of action was to stare at the ceiling. “Me, one of Derrick’s Darlings? Are you out of your mind? I sense you’re not taking me or my question, seriously.”

“You’re the one that fell on my lap. Then again, Derrick’s Darlings end up on a lot of laps.” Barry laughed so hard that his lap parts quivered and revealed themselves to the world.

Enough with feeling walked on. Enough with not being taken seriously. Enough with everyone, both dead and alive, flashing too many body parts. Annie slapped Barry across his face. “Wake up and smell the ink, Dinky. Ninety-nine out of one hundred women polled by Cosmo don’t want to see it for free. Cover it up and make women work for it. If a woman works for it, chances are she’ll appreciate it.”

“Oops,” Barry looked down and adjusted his privates. “Good advice. You’re a smart girl. No wonder Derrick liked you. Ever think about writing a self-help book?”

“Right after I quarterback at the Super Bowl.”

“Change your mind, let me know. We could turn some heads, kid,” Barry said as he pushed the rest of his bulges back in their discretionary folds. “Got something to show you before you check out of this joint.”

“I’ve seen quite enough, already.”

“No. You need to see this.”

Annie took a minute to dry off, pull on her clothes, pay Yang for the massage, and tip Madge a twenty. She followed Barry, still in his toga, who led the way through the twists and turns of multiple doorways and cheap curtains like a pro.

Derrick was on her like a rash.

“First and foremost, I’m a businessman,” Barry said and unlocked a door. “I don’t know who told you I might have offed Derrick, but I didn’t do it. No reason.”

“He had every reason,” Derrick said. “Barry was besides himself, frantic, practically pacing the ledge when he realized I left him for a new manager, Madison Morgan.”

“You were jealous, Barry. Derrick signed with a new manager, Madison Morgan. Jealousy and money made a dynamite motive for murder,” Annie said.

Barry turned and looked at Annie. “I sent Derrick termination of contract forms, via certified mail with signature required, before his last Learning Annex seminar. I’ll happily show you the return receipt.” He chucked her under her chin, opened a door and walked through it.

Annie and Derrick followed him.

“After knowing Derrick for twenty years, even though I was fond of the old pervert, I found someone easier, hotter, and equally, if not more, talented.”

“Old? Equally talented? Not possible,” Derrick said.

“Wow. I would have thought hanging out at the Greyhound Station could have speeded up that process for you,” Annie said.

Barry laughed.

Derrick frowned. “The Greyhound Station is a cheap shot. I did that once, a year ago. For a reason. But I guess a picture lasts forever.”

“Huh?” Annie said.

“Why are you investigating Fuller’s death?” Barry asked. “Love? Money? Promises?”

“Promises. I’ve got a thing about them.”

Barry led Annie into another back room of Thai Massage Spa. She gazed on a small recording studio that had every gadget imaginable. The newest most powerful Mac computer featured the newest garage band program. Woofers, tweeters, microphones, keyboards, surrounded the computer.

“Listen to this,” Barry said and placed earphones on Annie’s head. “I call them Tea & the Chai Latte Hotties. Here’s the single, No Special Favors. We’ve got an uphill climb in terms of PR, but we’ve also got a large local fan base including a well-known politician. We’re releasing it next month.”

Barry hit a button and a song played through Annie’s earphones. It was the same Thai soprano vocalist, Barry’s therapist, Tea. The song was a strange mixture of Thai and English, rap and female rock vocals. Oddly enough, it had style, it had flare. If this was the eighties, it would’ve had big hair. This song actually worked. Annie listened and nodded along.

“No Special Favors for you, for you. You rude man… Have at-ti-tude.

When men are crabby and men no tip? Crabby-Flabby men, no get dip.

No Special Favors for you, for you. No Special Favors for you.

No Special Favors for men in blue. Blue men lust, but then they bust.

If I relent, can no pay rent. No Special Favors for you, for you.”

“Wow,” Annie said as she took off the earphones. “That’s cool. Tea’s good.”

Barry wiggled his toes. “She’s gold, baby. The next Beyonce. With the Chai Latte Hotties as backup, I bet platinum. Wait till you see the video. Don’t get me wrong. I miss Derrick. But financially, I couldn’t hold onto a ship filled with holes moored in yesterday harbor. Got to move with the times. Derrick’s came and went.” Barry ran his hand through his almost absent hair. “Don’t hang onto a sinking ship, kiddo. Move it along.”

“If you didn’t kill Derrick, give me your top two choices on who you think did the deed,” Annie asked.

“Limit to two? Tough. Number one, Tawny. Number two, the numnut who shot Derrick a couple of nights ago. Or someone related to the numnut. Good luck finding your promise.”

“Thanks,” Annie said.

Barry shuffled off. Stopped. “Hey kiddo, FYI. I think Derrick was spending serious time with someone new. Maybe that new person made someone more established in Derrick’s life, nervous. Or possibly even, deadly.”

A Tea Party

Description: Display varieties of gourmet tea bags in a stylish wood box. Your guest can choose from a selection of teas with diverse aromas and flavors including caffeinated and non-caff. Prepare traditional crumpets in advance to serve with these delicious libations.

Ingredients & Directions: Prepare crumpet dough and stir thoroughly in bowl. Place lump of dough on baker’s board. To ensure dough is at proper consistency before shaping and baking your soon-to-be perfect crumpets, prod, poke, push, and pull the dough. Pummel the dough. Now you must be feeling pretty darn good. So go for it. Feel free to beat the shit out of the dough. In fact we encourage it. The dough will thank you. Your guests will enjoy the products of your ingenuity and thoughtfulness. Your crumpets will be the talk of the town.

Appropriate Occasions: Perfecting one’s hostess skills, or fake Eastern European accents. Anger management. Stress reduction.

Best Served With: High heels. Snooping. Tight muscles. But, no special favors.

FOURTEEN

Ho-Ho Holiday Cookies

Outside Thai Massage Spa, Annie walked down the deserted dilapidated street to her car. Barry appeared genial and gave good advice, she thought. Didn’t seem like a killer. Then she thought of Mike. How her dreams had been killed and she still missed him. But move it along.

“I am so not moored in yesterday harbor,” Derrick said as he trailed behind her. “I did score in Tomorrow Land once. Cute waitress from Boston on her first trip to L.A.”

“Barry didn’t kill you. Were you spending time with someone new? Like a hot new  lover, that might further incense a wacko who was already pissed off at you? Like a hot new guy who might be my husband, Mike?” Annie asked.

“No new lovers.” Derrick looked down and squirmed a little. “To be honest with you, I don’t remember your Mike. I don’t remember his face, I don’t remember having sex with him. All I remember is someone telling me that their spouse had empathic, psychic ability. I assumed that person was you when you showed up at my memorial service, at the shrine.”

Annie’s eyes narrowed. “Are you telling the truth, cadaver boy?”

“No new lovers!” he said and looked her in the eyes. “Who’s our next suspect?”

She turned on him. “No one’s next tonight, Derrick. I’m done being Nancy Drew. As of right now, I’m off the clock.”

“But…”

“No buts. I care about finding your killer only so your ghost-dom leaves my family and me alone,” Annie said. “I care about truth and justice and moles that elevate, get crusty and turn a funky shade of gray-black. I care about finding silver eyebrow hairs, effectively plucking them, the perfect chocolate chip cookie, innocent babies, senile seniors and everyone in between who’s confused about life just the way I am when it hasn’t turned out so rad, according to the plan, if you know what I mean.”

“So…” Derrick said.

“No, so. I’m driving home. Going to make myself a fun drink, park my butt on my sofa-slash-bed, and watch re-runs of Law & Order. Don’t even think about interrupting me. ’Cause, while technically you’re already dead? I. Will. Kill. You. Again. If I have to. I promise.”

“But…”

They reached her car. It was still green. Kind-of. It was spray-painted in tall large white letters with an inspirational message. “Ho.” The author was thorough in that the message was painted on all four sides of her car.

“Fuck,” Annie said, stomped her foot and winced when that hurt.

“Based on my research, I do believe that’s part of the ‘Ho,’ business,” Derrick said.

The Observer slouched on the sidewalk about fifty yards down the street from Annie’s car. Tossed a can of spray paint into a rain vent in a gutter. The Observer walked a couple of feet, then slumped in a doorway of a padlocked storefront and leaned against a security gate. Lifted a bottle in a paper bag to the opening in the parka’s hood and took a swig. Smiled at Annie’s dismay when she discovered her car-o-gram.

Annie stuck the key in the car door. Her hands were shaking and it took her about three attempts before she actually got the key in the lock.

Derrick put a dead finger in his mouth and chewed on a nail. “Do you want to talk about this? Emote? Open your heart? Get things off your chest? Share a dialogue about what you’re feeling?”

“It’s a threat. Just like Julia warned. Someone’s watching me investigate and that person’s getting pissed off.” She pulled her cell from her purse and made a call.

Carson answered. “Packers should have won.”

“Blame Brett Favre, the traitor. Carson, considering I’ve never had a gun, always hated guns, but I now believe someone’s threatening me, what kind of gun do you recommend I get?” Annie asked.

“A hammerless revolver. Like a .38 special. And it’s nice for you girly types because it won’t snag your clothing. Takes five days for the gun check. Hey, why don’t you just crush the idiot like you did my poor innocent Peeps?”

“Good God, Carson, I was two years old. That was thirty-six years ago and my First Major Life Debacle. I’ve apologized a hundred times. Are we ever going to get past this?”

“Did Peeps get past it? What’s your threat? Better be good,” Carson replied.

The Observer pulled the bottle out of the bag took another slug, and examined the label. “Natural Holistic Virility Enhancer.” Ingredients included: Folic Acid, Vitamins A, B, C, D, Calcium, Spirulina, Wheat Grass….” The Observer pulled something else out of a pocket and stroked it. It was cool and smooth, had no wheat grass, but could still pack a punch. It was a .44 caliber handgun. The Observer aimed the gun at Annie.

Oatmeal cookies filled with big raisin chunks lay on a cooling rack on Annie’s kitchen counter. She munched on one, leaned over and checked on more cookies baking in the oven.

Derrick did push-ups on her living room floor. “I don’t know what the big deal is. We should be out investigating the next suspect in my murder.”

Annie tossed a cookie at his head, grabbed a pen and hung over her kitchen counter. She made notes on a legal pad filled with names, addresses and phone numbers of auto paint places and gun shops. Already scribbled on the pad were notations filled with names like Joe and Clyde and Boo and numbers like .22, .38 and .44.

Derrick reached for the cookie. But it lay there, untouched on the floor. His blue hand couldn’t pick it up. “You are incredibly mean,” he said and pouted.

“And you’re as much fun as an enema. I’ve got to deal with my car, Derrick. Possibly get some kind of weapon, like a gun. Damn I hate guns. I’m running out of cash and I have to work, dude. My savings are tapped. No one’s going to pay my bills except for me.”

The phone rang. Annie checked caller ID. She picked up. “Hey there, Mom. What’s up?”

“I understand you called Carson last night and wished him Happy Christmas,” Nancy said.

“Huh?”

“You called your brother and told him, I quote, “Ho, ho, ho.” You called Pa recently multiple times in the middle of the night. And, you talked with Aunt Susan. Did you call your mother? No. When’s the last time you called your mother? I don’t remember. Get a pen.”

“Why?” Annie asked.

“Because you need to write down my phone number. I think you forgot it.”

“Mom, I know your phone number.”

“Well, unless you’re mad at me or don’t love your mother, there’s a third possibility why you haven’t called me. The Oconomowoc Tomahawk had an article in the C-section that says stressed out women in their late thirties and forties and going through marital difficulties most likely have high blood pressure and don’t know it. What’s your blood pressure?”

Annie broke into a sweat and fanned her face. “My blood pressure’s fine.”

“You answered too quickly. There’s something wrong with your blood pressure.”

“You’re right, Mom. It’s incredibly low. It’s so low that sometimes I forget whom I’m talking to on the phone. Oops. Who are you, again? No, I don’t talk to strangers. Must go,” she said and tried to put down the phone. But the high-pitched mom tone ran from the phone up her arm like a bolt of electricity and she jumped.

“Don’t pull that ‘Who are you?’ thing on me. I’m your mother. I invented it. I know you might have high or low blood pressure. Give.”

Annie glanced at Derrick who was trying to lick the cookie that lay on the floor. Teddy slapped it away from him. “And your cat’s mean, too,” Derrick said.

Annie tapped on the phone and made crumply whooshing static sounds. “Bra ing up…  Bra... Luv... B...,” she hung up the phone. “Good boy, Ted.”

She grabbed her wallet from her purse that was on the countertop and pulled a business card out of it. Dialed the phone. It rang.

A friendly voice answered. “Feinberg’s Famous Deli. How can I help you?”

“I’d like to speak with Mort Feinberg, please,” Annie asked.

It was the back back kitchen of Mort Feinberg’s Famous Deli. Annie knew this because the sign on top of the doorway in front of her read, “Feinberg’s Famous Deli’s Back Back Kitchen.” This medium-sized room was an industrial kitchen, equipped with multiple spacious countertops. Two huge refrigerator/freezer combos and several enormous ovens filled the room’s periphery.

Through the doorway, Annie caught glimpses of the servers and other restaurant help rush about in the back kitchen as they grabbed dishes from prep tables on their way through the front kitchen to serve patrons in the actual restaurant. She sighed. It would have been nice to be in the back or the front kitchen of Feinberg’s Famous Deli, but Mort was doing a huge favor just hiring her. She was in the bowels of deli-dom where only serious workers tread. Annie caught a glimpse of her reflection in the shiny metal refrigerator. She was covered in appropriate public health attire. This included a hairnet, plastic hygienic gloves, a facemask, and plastic goggles.

Derrick sat on a countertop and regarded her. “You look like a beekeeper, my little honeypot,” he said.

She punched out cookies from flattened dough on the counter top and placed them onto enormous baking sheets. “I am not your honeypot, and I do not look like a beekeeper. I look like an extremely responsible, professional baker.”

A teenage boy dressed in similar attire walked into the back back kitchen. “Hey, new girl. Bzzzzz.”

Derrick laughed.

Annie threw a wad of dough at him.

Derrick ducked, but he was too late and the dough flew through his head.

It hit the teenage boy in the face. He peeled it off his cheek, popped it in his mouth and ate it. “That’s some brainiac tasting dough, man. Didn’t mean to offend. I’m Zach and I’m an actor. Like, just here to pay the bills till I get picked up for a reality gig, or as the romantic new guy on that teen show.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t aiming at you. My name’s Annie.”

“Aim at me whenever you want. I’m resilient. I’m going to make it some day. Like Brad Pitt. Or Harrison Damon. How about you? What are you going to be some day?”

Great question, Annie thought. “Working on that.” She punched out more cookies.

“Cool. So like, you’ve got a boyfriend?”

“So like, I’m a little old for you.”

“Oh. I’d do, I mean go, for an older chick. Twenty-one through twenty-five, I’m down with that. You busy Friday night?” Zach asked.

She was tempted to say, “You could be my love child,” then thought if she couldn’t have her own children, possibly she could date one. (Legal age, of course.) But decided to stick with, “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Okay,” Zach said. Lifted and carried several trays of cookies into the ‘Back Kitchen.’

When Derrick materialized and eyed Zach. “Stop flirting with the Captain Crunch crowd, Annie. You haven’t spent one second today investigating who killed me.”

“I’ve knocked out like 25,000 cookies. Thanks for noticing my hard work.” she said as she scratched the top of her hair net with her antiseptic gloves.

“Sweetie, I don’t care if you put the cinnamon in the bun. I need to know who killed me. Let’s call a two star suspect. How tough can a two star be?” Derrick said. “Call Lewis, my kind-of attorney.”

“I’m exhausted,” Annie said.

“I can keep you up all night,” Derrick replied and swiveled his hips from side to side. Then front to back.

Nice to know he impressed himself. As far as Annie was concerned, Derrick’s silver Pucci package wasn’t growing prettier. “By not doing anything useful or fun.” She pulled off her hair net and held it out to him. “Put this over your thong.”

“I can’t. Nothing sticks.”

Frustrated, she grabbed a stick of butter from the counter and jammed it on the inside of the hair net. “Can you do nothing without me?” She threw it at him. And it stuck. Right over his metallic shiny silver package. They both regarded it, surprised.

“Wow. That was just like Pin the Tail on the Donkey,” Annie said. “Fine. You’re just lucky I’m in a generous mood. What’s your attorney’s number?”

“Lewis Scuchiani. 310/555-1010. You’re the best empath, ever.”

She grabbed the phone on the bakery wall and dialed. “Let me make one thing clear, Derrick. At this point in my life I can only be one hundred percent, squeaky clean honest. Do you understand? I am like George Washington. I cannot tell a lie. Frankly, I’m only doing this to get rid of you.”

“Law offices of Strunckle, Carbunkle, and Goldstein. How may I direct your call?” the professional-sounding female voice said over the phone.

Annie leaned against the wall, panicked, and fanned her face. She adopted a falsetto  English accent. “I’m inquiring about Attorney Lewis Schuchiani, please.”

“Who might I say is calling?”

“My name is…” she waved at Derrick for help.

“Myra.”

“My name is Duchess Myra Stoneycliff. I live most of the year in Switzerland on my husband’s estate with herds of round fuzzy sheep bleating in our grassy hilly fields next to the singing swans on our idyllic mountain lake. Swiss mountain dogs carry our domestic product, otherwise known as …” Annie jumped up and down in front of Derrick to distract him as he tried to touch the hairnet on his doodle, or more likely his doodle under the hairnet.

“Cheese,” he said.

“Stoneycliff Swiss Cheese down to the village three times a week,” Annie said into the phone. “We are a small, but proud, boutique Swiss cheese farm. The duke and I are visiting America to support the United Sheepherders in their fight against corporate cheese mongering. We at Stoneycliff are dedicated to the plight of the little cheese person, the cottage cheese, so to speak, industry.”

Derrick rolled his eyes and made the universal symbol for zip it across his pale lips.

But Annie could not shut up. “While we’re stateside, we must see our dear Lewis. His mumsy, my BFF told me to look him up. We go way back. I tapped his precious bare bottom on my knee when he was but a wee one, and being naughty. Unless I’m mistaken, there is a big celebration coming up for Lewis, in the near future.”

“Mumsy, I mean Roberta’s people probably sent you the press release. Our firm is having a small intimate reception at our office for Lewis on March 7th for making junior partner.”

“That’s five days from now.” Annie frowned and wiped flour off her face and forehead. She’d hoped to smash an ice pick through Derrick’s head oops, give up Derrick’s ghost before then. “That’s smashing, Dahling.”

“I’m sure Lewis will be thrilled to see you, Duchess. The reception’s at 7 p.m. and winds down around 8:30. I’ll put you and the duke on our list. Do you want me to messenger you that information along with our address?”

“No, no. We must save the trees. We might need them for something, someday. Cheerio!” Annie said and hung up the phone. “Thanks, Derrick. You can’t let me have one moment to myself? One day to relax?” She paced. “I sounded like a moron, and no one will believe me when I try and figure out who killed you.”

“The receptionist at a major law firm believed you.” Derrick said.

“She was a polite liar.”

“No. I would have pretended to be a former client. But you took the lie to an evolved level. Duchess Myra Stoneycliff? Why?”

“’Cause everybody in America wants to meet royalty.”

Derrick burst into laughter.

Annie giggled.

Zach walked into the back back kitchen and grabbed the rolling pin from the counter. Annie’s hairnet dropped off of Derrick’s thong, actually the well-positioned rolling pin, and fell to the floor, butter side down. “Yo, baby. Change your mind about Friday, let me know.” Zach winked and walked off.

“Does nothing stick to you?” Annie asked Derrick.

“You stick to me. I depend on you. I’m crazy about you. Let’s try another suspect…”

“Shut up,” she said, slipped her time card in the machine on the wall and clocked out. Replaced it in the little metal bin mounted on the wall.

“It’s early! Just one more. I promise. I know. The guy who shot me! Let’s check out his porno daughter. Please. I found out where her next movie is shooting.”

“How?” Annie asked.

“Hello, we live in L.A. It’s called industry talk. I spotted a cute guy noshing a bagel and overheard him yapping on his cell.”

Annie shook her head. “No. I’ve been up since 4:30 a.m. It’s now 3 p.m.”

“Practically breakfast time for the porn industry. I promise we’ll be in and out quickly.”

“I will not even comment on your comment.”

Ho-Ho Holiday Cookies

Description: Cookies of all varieties. Oatmeal raisin. Butter with little decorative sprinkles. Chocolate anything – the list is endless. Let your taste buds take you on a sleigh ride.

Appropriate Occasions: Holidays of all sorts. ‘Ho-ing,’ the business. Researching guns.

Best Served With: One working oven. More creative lying. Stick the Hairnet on the Doodle – The Party Game.

FIFTEEN

Peanut Butter Fluffers

Annie exited her rent-a-wreck parked with eighty plus other cars of all makes and models next to a grassy suburban curb. A tacky valley palace-like 1970s “please make it fancy and baroque,” house sat on a large suburban lot at the end of a cul-de-sac. Everyone seemed to be walking in the direction of that house, so she followed their lead.

She was dressed in a conservative two-year-old designer suit from the Beverly Hills’ Women’s Thrift Shop. Derrick made her stop there on their way to the valley. She’d picked it up for nickels on the dollar. God bless those super-blessed ladies for donating clothing they simply couldn’t wear to more than two, three max, official functions.

Annie also wore bottle thick cat-eye spectacles, low heels and a matchy bag. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun. Nose in the air, chin up, she carried a legal pad and walked confidently, (she was faking), in order to make it past the first hurdle: a skinny twenty something kid with his trousers hanging down his butt. He was holding a clipboard and texting on his Blackberry.

“I can do this,” she muttered.

“I have every faith in you,” Derrick replied.

She strode past a white sign handwritten in black sharpie that was duct taped to a telephone pole. It read, “Bellywood Two – Curry and Curvier.” A second handwritten sign below it read, “Cowpoke This.”

Annie smiled. “Cake. No problem. Why was I worried?”

“What do you think the ‘wood’ stands for in – ”

“Shut up, pervert.”

When the skinny kid grabbed her arm and stopped her.

“This is a closed set, Ma’am.”

Annie checked him out. “Thank you. But it’s Ms., not Ma’am. I am on your list, unless they didn’t update you. I hate when that happens. Bureaucracy sucks, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yeah.” Skinny checked his smudged call-sheet list of official designated peeps allowed on the porn movie set. “I’ve got a note about a new actress. A Holly Cum Ezy,” he said and eyed Annie, not lasciviously, more like a lab experiment or a petri dish sprouting mold, which could produce a new antibiotic. He aimed his camera phone at her and snapped a pic. “You, her?”

“No, no,” Annie said. “I have no talent when it comes to porn. I never went to school.”

“Turn around,” Skinny instructed.

She did. “I’m just into regular, you know, old-fashioned, basic run-of-the-mill sexual fun Mayberry kind of stuff. Frisk me if you want. I’m not carrying guns or whips or chocolate sauce.”

“We love Mayberry.” Skinny dropped to his knees and snapped a pic of Annie’s butt. “Very nice. Now take your hair out of that bun thing and flip it over your shoulder.”

Derrick frowned. “He’s scouting you.”

She whispered through closed lips, “Yeah. As den mother for his local Cub Scouts troop.” She unleashed her hair from the bun and tossed it over her shoulder. “I’m boring.”

“Take off your glasses,” he said.

She did. “I could never be the talent. Just a girlfriend or a wife or a mother.”

“You’d definitely be a MILF. And a GILF or a WILF. I can work with all of the above.” Snap, snap on Skinny’s camera phone.

“Wake up and smell the double caff moccachino caramel latte. He’s totally profiling you,” Derrick said.

She turned her back to Skinny and whispered, “Derrick, this kid’s a founding member of Nerd-Watch, the reality show.” Annie shoved her hair back on top of her head and faced Skinny. “I need to get on set. Urgent business. Your name is?”

“Paul,” he said and shoved the phone camera back in his pants pocket. Squinted and looked down the remainder of the names and numbers on his call-sheet list. “The only other new name on my list is a fluffer. You her?”

Annie looked at Derrick for guidance but his eyes were round and fixed. He was completely absorbed by a beautiful princess tree with enormous purple flowers. Pretty, yes, but mesmerizing? Why had Mr. Overly Talky shut up now? Once again, he was no help whatsoever.

Annie had no idea what a fluffer was, but it sounded relatively innocuous. Probably the fluffer teased the talent’s hair, pre-shoot. Or spritzed the on-set flower arrangements with water. Maybe even plumped the pillows on the bed or the floor in front of the fireplace, the futon in the second bedroom and the chaise lounge in the main bedroom. Possibly the pillows in the RV or the big-rig truck that she spotted down the enormously long narrow driveway that led to the end of the palace’s property. “Yes. I’m the new fluffer. That would be me,” she said and nodded. “And you’re an excellent security guard.”

Paul laughed. “Thanks,” he said, reached in his pocket and handed a business card to Annie. “I get promoted if I recruit new talent. Give me a call should you choose to move up in the ranks.”

Whatever that meant. “Thank you!” Annie put the card in her wallet in her purse and wandered in the direction of the set. “How’d you know he was scouting me, Derrick?”

“I’m feeling fuzzy. Can’t quite put words together. Probably an after affect of being dead.”

“Fine,” she said and kept walking. Once a prima donna, always a prima donna.

Official movie peeps walked past Annie. Some carried fake palm trees, and a couple of guys held camera equipment. They looked like they knew where they were going. The talent: male, female and in-between trickled past. The talent were walking ads for breast implants, tummy tucks, teeth whitening, tanning booths, calf implants, liposuction, lip augmentation, nose jobs and more jobs. They had big lacquered hairdos and wore spiffy bathrobes. Any skin that showed on the talent was hair free, like a baby’s behind. They were plastification beautiful.

Annie flipped open her notebook to a pic of Sienna Saffron/Gable in younger more innocent times. She wore a high school cheerleading outfit and held pom-poms. Next to that picture was a photo from Bellywood that showed Sienna Saffron shaking her real-life pom-poms for the entire world to appreciate.

Annie spotted her. Sienna Saffron wasn’t in a bathrobe but a pair of threadbare jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. She leaned against the door of the bright purple big-rig cab and argued with somebody on her cell. She looked like a cute, fresh-faced college kid who was frustrated with either an errant boyfriend or chemistry class. Sienna waved around an 8 X10 envelope and looked furious. Huh. Annie picked up speed and strode towards her. “Sienna. Sienna Saffron?” she yelled.

Sienna saw, but ignored her.

“Sienna! I have to talk with you!”

She turned and eyed Annie.

When a white-blonde, tanned, muscular forty-something guy with ultra smooth skin the texture of margarine in a tub grabbed Annie’s shoulder and stopped her mid-stride. “Hello, hello Cherry Red. I’ve been waiting for you!”

Annie checked out this almost-manly creature. He wore one of those robes, large dark shiny Italian sunglasses, pretty new cowboy boots and a Stetson. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“You’re the new fluffer, right?”

“Rumor has it, I am,” she said. When confused, be cagey. Cagey could buy a little time.

“Ah, you’re cagey. Mental foreplay. I like you already. My name’s Cowboy. Come to my trailer now, my little cowgirl,” he said, grabbed her hand and led her away from Sienna. “My scene’s approaching and I’m so ready for you. Love new talent. Can you let down your hair? You flossed recently, right?” He pulled her to the front door of a sagging, teensy trailer.

Something about this felt wrong. Of course she flossed. Twice a day. Suddenly her teeth felt funny. “Derrick,” she hissed. “Something’s off with Cowboy. I could use some help, here. Cowboy might have a cavity. Maybe he needs a referral to a dentist.” But Derrick wasn’t anywhere in sight. Why?

Finally she spotted him walking next to a small old horse that was being led across the yard by its handler. “Hey, Derrick!”

“Old Yeller, I’m a fan. Keep on going, Old Yeller,” Derrick said and patted the horse’s rump. The horse’s eyes crossed and he kicked a rear leg into the air. His handler tried to soothe him with gentle strokes on his mane and carrot treats.

“Old Yeller was a dog, Derrick. A fake dog in a movie,” Annie said. Derrick wouldn’t meet her glance. Since when did he care about animals? She hoped this old horse was in the “Cowpoke This” movie. Oops. She changed her mind and hoped it wasn’t.

“Of course, my dear,” Cowboy said. “You are quite astute. Cowboy likes astute.”

Something was wrong. “Why don’t I visit you after your scene?” Annie said to Cowboy. “You don’t want to be interviewed for…Porn People Monthly before your star performance. Might give you a little anxiety,” Annie punted. She paused and looked at Sienna who was striding away from the big-rig. “Sienna! Wait! It’s important.”

Sienna kept walking, a very pissed off look on her pretty face.

“It’s about your dad. I want to help you guys.”

Sienna turned.

“You looking for Sienna Saffron, or Sienna Gable?”
“Sienna Gable. Whose dad is Bill Gable. A good man,” Annie replied

Sienna stared at Annie. “Do you know?” she asked.

“I think I know what’s in that envelope. Photos?” Annie said as Cowboy pulled her by her arm into his trailer. “Wait a minute, please. I need to spritz his flowers.”

Annie thought the inside of Cowboy’s trailer was even more dilapidated than its exterior.  A worn loveseat featured faux paint pony hide. No pillows to fluff. A small lamp with antlers rested on a coffee table shaped like a saddle. No flowers to spritz. A few crumbling movie posters of old westerns hung on the walls. A saggy mattress peeked through ancient Venetian blinds in the back of the trailer. No big hair, anywhere. Nothing to fluff. Why were her hands turning red and itchy?

Thai Massage Spa looked like Buckingham Palace compared to this place. “I’m sorry, Cowboy, but there’s been a mistake. Good luck with your role. I’ll catch you at the Porno-Plex. You rock!” She gave him a double thumbs up and a big smile.

He smiled back. “And hopefully, you will too!” he said and flung open his robe. “Fluff my manly-dom and become a part of Cowboy’s trail ride.”

And there it was. Why Cowboy was famous. It was shriveled, slightly crooked, looked like it had seen better days, but put a quarter in the slot and it was the aging Bucking Bronco ride of its world.

“Kneel before the Cowpoke, my pretty cowgirl, smoke the peace pipe and do your magic,” Cowboy said as he put a hand on her head and pushed her gently but firmly towards the ground, as well as to his claim-to-fame.

She closed her eyes tightly and grimaced. In that moment she figured out what a fluffer did. “I’m not, I don’t think... There’s been a mistake,” she clamped her lips shut and breathed through her nose.

“‘There are no mistakes, only opportunities.’ I read that in a book once. The author died recently. He was in the self-help business. He was a pioneer, I tell you. You know his name?”

“Dottaw Dek Fulwwer,” she mumbled through her shut mouth.

“I will be as soon as you’ve fluffed me.”

Uh-oh. She squirmed, turned her head to the side. But Cowboy had a solid grip on her head. Probably a wannbe wrestler before he became the Cowboy. “I have three cavities and need a root canal,” Annie said with one hand over her mouth and pushed herself back to standing. “I have halitosis and gingivitis. Probably one of those superbugs. Most likely contagious or even deadly,” she said and coughed for effect.

The door to the trailer flew open. Sienna Saffron/Gable stood in the doorway. “Fluff yourself, you old horn dog. This girl’s not in the biz, and I need her right now more than you do.”

Cowboy reluctantly closed his robe. “Oh I get it. You two are like the L Word. Not impressed by the Cowboy, his saddle, his chaps, his stirrups, his lasso ability, his… ”

“Strange ability to talk about yourself in the third person?” Annie said and followed Sienna out of the trailer. “Thank you, thank you…”

Annie leaned back against the big rig. She spritzed her mouth with the minty fresh spray twelve times and then spritzed her hands as well. It was getting dark and the L.A. weather turned from warm to foggy and chilly in minutes. She was exhausted and shivered.

“You should have told me, Derrick,” Annie said.

He leaned on the rig next to her and shook his head. “You would have left if I told you.”

“Could you blame me?”

“Why? You didn’t put my dad in prison,” Sienna said and walked up from behind the cab. She wore a thick multi-colored poncho and handed Annie a steaming cup of coffee. “I knew the second I saw you that you weren’t a pro. You don’t seem like a cop. So who are you, and what do you know about my dad?”

“I’m not a cop. I think Fuller had an affair with my husband. Someone poisoned and killed that idiot with one of my cupcakes.”

“Oh you’re the baker. I’ve been out of the country a couple of weeks and I came back to chaos. I wish I had killed the creep myself. You’re my hero.”

“Right there with you on the wishing thing. I didn’t do it, but I need to find who murdered the spineless thong-wearing humpty dumpty, so I can get on with my life.” Annie sipped the coffee. “Your dad shot Fuller. Only a flesh wound but he’s still in jail. Why?”

Sienna shook her head. “He’d never even gotten a speeding ticket before this. My folks are broke. Someone sent my dad…” She held up the manila envelope and tapped it.

“Photos. 8 X 10 glossies,” Annie said.

“How’d you know?” Sienna looked surprised.

“I got some, too.”

“Oh, these were awful. Dad freaked. He tried calling Fuller, then his manager and attorney. Dad sent e-mails, letters. Started following Fuller, but his lawyer, Lewis Scuchy something, sent my parents a threatening letter, and filed a restraining order on him. And my dad, the world’s biggest puppy, snapped.”

“Why no bail?”

Sienna paced and bit her nails. “Dad wanted to wait till I was back in the country to get a lawyer. I planned to go back to Santa Monica College this summer. He was scared to say the wrong thing. Doesn’t want bad publicity, paparazzi and/or gossip following me around. Besides, Schuchy’s at some big mucky muck firm. They have clout and they’re throwing it around.”

“May I?” Annie pointed to the envelope.

Sienna handed it to her. Annie pulled the pictures out of the envelope and flipped through them. Sienna in her Bellywood outfit. Sienna flashing her tatas.

Derrick leaned in over Annie’s shoulder to get a better look. She frowned and tossed her steaming coffee over her shoulder at him. He jumped in horror. “Stop throwing things at me!” The liquid passed through his chest out his back and landed steaming on the ground.

Sienna frowned. “Coffee’s bad on the set. I’m sorry.”

“No, it was great. Too much caffeine and I won’t sleep,” Annie said.

Derrick admired his chest, smug.

Annie caught the look. She realized the coffee she tossed through him didn’t sting, burn, or stain.

“Maybe I’m like a super-hero, like Spidey, Superman,” Derrick said. “I could be – The Invincible Dead Guy.”

“Oh, give me a …,” Annie said.

Sienna looked confused. “Give you what?”

“More time to examine these pictures,” she said. In some, Sienna wiggled her silk sari covered booty in front of a multi-racial but all male enthusiastic audience.

The next photos were of Sienna with, surprise, surprise, Derrick Fuller. Multiple compromising sexual positions.

Derrick’s head was practically on Annie’s chest as he stared at those pics. “I look pretty good in those. Does any specific photo stand out for a slip to The Star or TMZ?”

Annie sighed. “I’m not your publicist.”

“I know,” Sienna said, confused.

Such a bummer that Sienna had slept with Fuller. That, combined with her dad’s dilemma, probably made her a suspect. “These real?”

“No. Those were Photoshopped. I never slept with Derrick Fuller. Those pics pushed my dad completely over the edge,” Sienna said and blinked back tears. “I’m not thrilled about what I did. I’m getting over it; moving on.”

Now Derrick looked confused. “Does that mean I didn’t sleep with her? Oh God, I’m losing it. I’m going to have to do those mind games for seniors, to retard aging.”

“Too late. Hah!” Annie said.

Sienna looked embarrassed. “No judgment, please, about what I did to put money in my own bank account.”

“They love you, Sienna. Your parents love you.”

Sienna wiped away a few tears. “I don’t want my parents to struggle. My dad...”

“Being a parent means you struggle for your kid. Being part of family isn’t perfect and it’s not pretty. It’s black eyes and snotty noses. IRS audits, long workdays, struggling for a B in school, but making a C instead. It’s germs, chicken pox, stress and ADHD. You don’t want people to judge you? Don’t judge your dad. My best friend Julia is a L.A. Deputy Public Defender. I’ve known her for twenty-five years. She’s smart, a little cocky, but I trust her. I’m happy to hook her up with your dad. She’d go to the wall for him.”

Sienna smiled and bear hugged Annie. “That’d be awesome!”

When an overly tanned man interrupted them. He was in his forties, handsome with coiffed George Clooney-like salt and pepper hair. He wore casual tan slacks that were perfectly creased. “Hello, ladies,” he said and flashed a police badge. “My name is Detective Kyle Pardue. Sienna Saffron, I’m a big fan, would love an autograph and need to ask you a few questions.”

Peanut Butter Fluffers

Description: Hand made ice cream sandwiches with sprinkles of crunchy peanut butter and mini-marshmallows.

Appropriate Occasions: Lying your way onto a porn set. Discovering a new profession is just not for you.

Best Served With: Minty breath spray. Floss. Instant hand sanitizer in a handy gallon size.

SIXTEEN

Porno Pies

Derrick appraised Detective Kyle Pardue and frowned. “Ew. He’s a cop with nothing to offer but gooey old Playboys stuck together and a stack of Kenny G CDs. We leave, now,” Derrick said to Annie.

Annie edged away from Sienna. “Yo, girl. I’ll check out these documents and give you a shout.” She pointed to the manila envelope.

Sienna waved at her and mouthed, “Yes.”

Annie turned to bolt. Pardue stared at her, interested. “Miss? You look familiar,” he said. “Have we met?”

“Walk. Walk. Walk,” Derrick said and slapped Annie repetitively on her butt, like she was a naughty puppy.

She jumped. “Don’t think so, Officer,” she said, but kept on walking.

“No. You’re the baker,” Kyle said. “The separated baker in Dr. Derrick Fuller’s homicide case. Stop right there. I’ve got a couple of questions for you, too. Did you kill Dr. Derrick Fuller?”

She stopped. “For God’s sakes, no I didn’t kill that prick, and I’m enormously tired of being asked that question.” she said, turned and glared at Kyle.

Derrick put his hands on his waist. “Now is the time for you to grow up and stop calling me a prick. I have done so much for you. I am the wind beneath your wings.”

“So, what are you doing here?” Kyle asked.

“Um. Field trip,” Annie said. “You never know where great recipe ideas spring from.”

“And, you’re working on?” Kyle asked and regarded her skeptically.

“Oh. That. Top secret assignment for, you know, the big cheese. The big apple. The big kahuna. Yeah there,” she said. WTF, she had no idea how to get out of this one.

“No, no Missy Baker. I’m Kyle Pardue and I’m an LAPD detective. You need to tell me why you’re here and conspiring with Sienna Saffron. Now.”

“We are not conspiring,” Sienna said and pouted.

“Porno pies,” Derrick said.

“I’m working on porno pies,” Annie said. “Not just your average…” Where to go with this one?

“Porno pies?” Kyle asked, beyond curious.

“Apple pie,” Derrick prompted.

“Not just your average apple pie,” Annie said. “Porno pies are a more exotic delicious confection, laced with creamy melted butterscotch filling that tops a sizzling brown sugar, vanilla laced apple pie filling. Obviously, Sienna Saffron’s talented body of work inspired my recipe.”

“That’s right,” Sienna said and ran her tongue over her upper lip. “We’re co-llab-or-ating.”

Annie glared at Kyle, steely-eyed.

Kyle almost drooled as he stared at both of them. “I need you to hand me that envelope,” he said to Annie.

She frowned, but she handed the envelope with Sienna’s 8 X 10 photos to Kyle.

In the near distance, they heard Cowboy yell, ‘Yee-haw! That’s home on the range!”

Annie walked into her apartment hours later. She was exhausted. Sienna, God bless her, had snuck her copies of her Dad’s photos when Detective Kyle confiscated the originals. Meanwhile, Kyle Pardue had asked her every question imaginable, including her shoe size. What, did the police have footprints from the killer? More likely Detective Pervy Due had a foot fetish. She flicked the light switch on. Nothing illuminated, nothing turned on. Her place was dark except for a glow from her battery-operated night light in the bathroom. Lovely. Maybe this was a good thing. She wouldn’t be able to see her eye circles that were now half the size of the national debt. Had Derrick figured out how to manipulate electricity? More likely the darkness was because she hadn’t paid her electric bill. She owed last month on the old apartment, a deposit on the new one and a first month now. Damn, she couldn’t catch a break if a friggin’ car ran over her and stalled on top of her heart.

She broke into what she thought was another peri-menopausal sweat, unhooked and pulled off her bra from underneath her tee and threw it on the couch. Teddy meowed plaintively from the kitchen. She walked towards him. “Sorry sweetie. Dinner’s late tonight,” she said.

A hand reached out and grabbed her arm. She screamed.

The figure hissed. “Shhh. It’s me,” he said and leaned Annie back against her kitchen cabinets. “We have to talk. Now.”

She looked up, saw and felt Mike leaning against her. For a moment, he felt warm, comforting and normal. Then he felt the opposite. She pushed him away.

“I thought you’d bolt, so I tripped your fuse box. The photos were Photoshopped. I swear. We’re separated for stupid reasons. We wanted to have a child together, Annie. What are you doing?” Mike reached out and caressed her hair.

She pulled away, again. “I can’t believe you messed with my fuse box. That’s just plain wrong,” she said. She actually wanted to say, “I can’t believe you slept with someone else, betrayed our marriage and broke my heart, you stinkin’ jerk. ’Cause that’s just plain wrong.”

But Mike only heard the words said out loud, not the unspoken ones that rammed around in her head like bumper cars. He leaned into her again. “Let’s get back together, Annie. We can do fertility or adopt. We’ll find a way to have our baby. Let’s take some time and figure stuff out. Go to therapy.”

She felt confused. Her heart raced, her stomach gurgled and her forehead tingled. She wanted him. She didn’t want him. Dammit. The uncertainty was driving her, crazy. “I don’t know, Mike. Huh?” she said. Once again – the stupid words. Where were the smart words? Drinking cervezas frias, snorkeling, and getting lucky at a Club Thesaurus?

“Don’t let us end, Annie. Not with a rumor and not with lies. Please.”

She was strung out on nerves and too much life change. Husband cheating on the down low. Now, he denied that. How dare he? Men. Her hormones raged.

She had filed for separation and moved her home in one day. Her business was in the toilet. She discovered who possibly cheated with her husband – Derrick Fuller. Then dickwad died. After that, he not only haunted her, but also basically moved in with her. And, oh lovely, she became a murder suspect in his untimely demise. She faced frightening early hours and long days doing manual labor. Experienced shitty coffee, rotten sleep and no smokes. Got up close and barely escaped getting overly friendly with Cowboy’s penis.

She forced herself to hold it together for one long moment. With what, she had no idea. She was in the negative reserves with her energy, her psych issues and her life. But what if those nasty photos were indeed doctored? What if she changed her entire life and her dreams because of a big fat lie?

She couldn’t look Mike in the eyes, but managed to spit out. “I can’t, not now. You have to go. I’m looking for… I’ll figure out who… I’ll figure it all out.”

“Who, what?” Mike asked. “Who? What?”

Derrick’s eyes welled up. He put his thumbs and forefingers together in a heart shape. “I heart you,” he said.

Annie ignored Derrick. She stood next to her front door and pointed to it. “Leave, Mike. I’ll call you when I figure it out.”

Mike leaned in, caught her off guard and kissed her on her lips. “You and I are not, over.”

Annie remembered her Valentine’s Gift - the 8 X 10 glossies. Sienna said her sex photos with Derrick were faked. Were Mike’s faked, as well? She pulled back, confused, angry; didn’t know what emotion ruled the moment. “Go,” she said. “Just go.”

Mike walked out the front door, turned and stared at her. “We will work this out.”

She slammed the door shut, bolted it and sat back on the floor, legs crossed. Rocked back and forth with her head in her hands.

Derrick stood over her and looked at her through new eyes. “Do you want to talk?”

“Yes,” she said and continued rocking. “I want to know if you slept with my husband, Mike.”

Derrick sat next to Annie on her living room floor and rocked back and forth as well. “If you asked me that question three weeks ago when I was alive, I’d have told you to talk to my attorney. When you conjured me at the Shrine, I would have said that information was, play and pay. You play my game, find out who killed me, then I tell you if I slept with your husband.”

“What about now?” Annie asked. She sat tall, still, her spine long, her eyes closed. “I’m asking you, right now, if you slept with my husband?”

Derrick swallowed. “Right now, in all honesty, I don’t know. I simply don’t remember.”

Annie took her hands on either side of her head, rotated her neck and cracked it. “Yeah there, at least that felt great. You don’t remember if you slept with my husband?”

He shook his head. “There were so many. I was busy, exhausted. I suffered from terrible amnesia and took sleeping pills. Frequently.”

Annie got up, walked into her kitchen and out her back door.

Derrick’s hands shook. Had he lost her? Would she leave him? He followed her. “Where are you going?”

“Right now, the fuse box. Tomorrow, 25,000 more cookies.”

It was daytime inside the detective’s room at the West Los Angeles Police Department. The tables were lined with files and documents, some older PCs, open Chinese takeout containers, chopsticks, a gigantic sized bottle of Tums, a tin of Altoids, crumpled power bar wrappers, empty water bottles and half-emptied cardboard cups of tea and coffee.

Rafe had carved out a niche on a table in front of him, spread out Annie’s photos, and examined them, along with statements from persons of interest. He scribbled notes on a legal pad.

Detective Kyle Pardue paraded into the room and waved a manila envelope over his head. “I’ve got porn evidence. Statements and 8 X 10 glossies of Sienna Saffron in all her glory. Some with Derrick Fuller when the stiff had seen better days. Hah hah. Stiff. Get it? Hah! I crack myself up. Others are of Ms. Saffron, getting… creative.”

Kyle grabbed an energy bar from a basket on top of the fridge and ripped open the wrapper. He walked over and took a seat next to Rafe, and tossed the envelope onto the table next to him. “Funny thing,” he said and scarfed down the bar. “I went to the set of Bollywood Two last night.”

“Outstanding detective work. Your mother must be very proud,” Rafe said. He opened the envelope Kyle had thrown to him, and took out a slew of 8 X 10 photo glossies. Flipped through them, and tried his best to keep a poker face.

Kyle leaned over his shoulder. “Cool, huh, Rafe? I interviewed some nice people on that porn set. I took statements, scored a couple of phone numbers and got a few free DVDs. If you want to borrow How I Boned Your Mother, just ask me, bro.”

“I’m not your bro, but thanks. I get my porn the old fashioned way, off the Internet.”

“You’re such a boy scout. Speaking of, I met your girl scout equivalent last night, the baker person of interest in Fuller’s murder. Annie Graceland. She was on the porn set, is separated from her husband and looks like she needs some action.”

Rafe coughed. He grabbed Sienna’s photos and placed them above the Mike-Derrick photos on the table. It was like filling in a puzzle.

“Funny thing. Annie Rose and Sienna Saffron seemed very close. Like pals, buds. Or partners in crime? Two smart sexy chicks that both wanted Dr. Derrick Fuller dead. What do you think about that theory, Rafe?” Kyle asked.

“Perhaps they had motive, but where would they have hooked up to plot his murder?  Iwantderrickdead.com?” Rafe replied.

Kyle’s cell rang and he picked up. “Thanks, Chloe for returning my call. How well do you know Tawny Fuller?” he asked. “Oh, you’re her manicurist. You know her, professionally,” Kyle said and checked out his nails.

Rafe knew they were immaculate. “I’m sorry, Chloe, I didn’t mean to imply... During your multiple mani-pedis you and Tawny shared intimate girl talk. Right. You’re her closest friend,” Kyle’s voice dropped. “Tawny’s husband was tragically murdered and I bet she needs to get a lot off her chest right now,” he said. “I’d love a professional manicure. Two this afternoon is perfect.” Kyle jotted down her address. “Are you single, Chloe? Ah, getting divorced. My sincerest condolences.” He hung up the phone, pulled out his wallet, opened it and pulled out two Trojans.

Rafe shook his head. “You’re a pig.”

“Thanks, Rafe. But I prefer to think I’m gifted.” Kyle smiled. “Gotta go. A hang-nail emergency,” he said and walked off.

Captain Wallace poured himself a cup of coffee and watched Kyle leave. “What about the baker girl, Rafe? Realistic suspect?”

“I don’t know, Cap. It looks like her estranged husband was having relations with Fuller.”

Captain Wallace walked over, peered at the pictures. “I’d say the baker had motive. If I got those photos, I’d be more than angry.”

“But, the baker’s husband denies it,” Rafe said and frowned. “Told me someone’s messing with him and his wife. That they’re going through an average marital rough patch. I’ve spent some time with Annie Rose and she seems more like the meddling kind, not the murdering type.”

Captain Wallace rested his firm hand on Rafe’s shoulder. “She meddling with you, Raphael?”

“No, sir,” he replied. But he felt his face flush.

“Uh-huh,” Captain Wallace said and walked off.

At Feinberg’s Famous Deli’s Back Back Kitchen, Annie looked at the time clock. 3 p.m. She wiped some flour off her face, grabbed her timecard and stuck it in the time clock. It clicked. She returned the timecard to the metal holder on the wall.

Zach sauntered into the Back Back Kitchen. “Need more cinnamon oatmeal cookies. So, you busy…”

“I’ve got to pick up my car at the shop before it closes. But, thanks,” Annie said.

“Okay,” he turned, hoisted a couple of trays of cookies from the countertop and walked off into the back kitchen.

Derrick leaned against the fridge. “Congrats on your impressive cookie numbers and enticing young Count Chokula.”

Annie glared at him. “Thanks.”

“I checked today’s obits. Three minor celebs, all former clients of mine, have passed on. But not one has communicated with me. I believe that means they already passed to the After-Life. Why would they transition so quickly, and I’m still here? I’m frustrated, Cupcake.”

Annie sighed, exhausted. “Fine. Tawny’s phone number?”

Derrick rambled it off. She picked up the phone and made the call. Tawny’s voicemail answered. “Hi there! Don’t be a stranger!” Sounded like Tawny was recuperating. “You’ve reached Tawny Derrick Fuller. I’m incredibly excitedly busy with my new reality show, Discovering Tawny – big kisses to TLC channel – and can’t be reached right now. So contact my manager, the fantabulous Madison Morgan at 310/555-PIMP. Leave your message at the beep.” Loud saccharine giggles. “Oops, I almost forgot, today’s special word? Boobies!”

“Beep!”

Annie left her message, “Hello, Mrs. Fuller. This is Dawn Fitch from Truly Trashy Lingerie and Specialty Items. Your order has come in. Please give us a call to confirm when you’ll be picking up, as we can’t be storing a customized order that large, if you know what I mean, for very long. We just don’t have the room. 310-555/8181. Thank you!” Annie hung up, went to the kitchen sink and scrubbed her hands.

It was late afternoon. Detective Kyle Pardue stood outside Annie’s apartment. He opened his wallet, pulled out a credit card, flipped it over and revealed a mirror. Checked his reflection, slipped the mirror back in his wallet and knocked on Annie’s door. “Hello, Annie.” There was no answer. He knocked again. “Ms. Graceland. It’s Detective Kyle Pardue. I met you the other night on the Bollywood Two set. I have a few more questions.” He leaned into the door, listened, but heard nothing. Pulled a business card from his wallet, stuck it in the crack of her door and walked off.

Porno Pies

Description: Not just your average apple pie. A more exotic delicious confection, laced with creamy melted butterscotch filling that tops a sizzling brown sugar, vanilla laced pre-sautéed apple pie filling sandwiched in a top and bottom baked to perfection crust.

Appropriate Occasions: Sneaking away from an uncomfortable situation. Being caught, in the act of sneaking away from an uncomfortable situation. Being caught with what appears as possibly incriminating evidence while sneaking away from an uncomfortable situation.

Best Served With: Sleazy detectives. Persistent nubile suitors. A really great mani-pedi.

SEVENTEEN

Power Puffs

It was nighttime in Annie’s place. Derrick sat on the floor and watched Annie sleep on her couch. Her hair was everywhere, her eyes fluttered back and forth in REM sleep and she snored a little on each exhale. Teddy the cat reclined on her head and stared slit-eyed at Derrick. He obviously considered himself her bodyguard. The clock hit 4:30. The alarm rang.

Annie shuddered. Teddy leaped off her head. She groaned, pushed herself off the couch and stumbled towards her bathroom.

“Every day a happy day! I promise,” Derrick said.

The back of her hand appeared in the opening of the bathroom door with her middle finger stuck straight up.

It was quitting time at Feinberg’s Famous Deli’s back back kitchen. Annie winced when she lifted the time card up and inserted it into the slot. She’d punched out over 40,000 cookies today and her arms were killing her. But, no rest, yet. She had another Derrick clue to track down.

Annie wore basic exercise attire, was in a deep knee lunge and not all that happy about it. She frowned and held that lunge for longer than humanly possible (three seconds) on a wide tree lined grassy median. It separated the two halves of the six lane San Vicente Boulevard in Santa Monica which ran all the way through Brentwood, California. Runners, joggers and walkers passed by her on this grassy strip that lay between the speeding cars that dodged aggressive bicyclists.

Ginger, Derrick’s former trainer, frowned as she evaluated Annie’s lunge. Ginger was in impeccable shape and had almost no body fat. That’s why she scored all the Shape, Fit, Women’s Workout World, Perfect Thighs and Buns and Amazing Abs magazine covers. Annie hated Ginger on principal alone and wondered how much more of this exercise stuff she could take.

“Okay, Annie. You were a friend of Derrick’s. So I know you’re motivated,” Ginger said.

Derrick leaned back against a tree, feet crossed and watched the two women. “See? Even Gingy picked up the vibe that we’re friends.”

“Ginger, I lied when I made the appointment with you,” Annie said. “Derrick and I were never friends. I’m investigating his death for… health reasons. I got the unfortunate, ‘I got this disease thingy and I have to tell you,’ phone-call, if you know what I mean. Traced it back to Derrick Fuller. Honestly, I’m about as motivated as an amoeba.”

“Your lunge shows that,” Ginger said. “It’s weak. Your forward leg is caving in which could create future knee problems. And your back leg is un-engaged.”

“Huh,” Annie said and looked at her legs. The front one was shaking. “Caving in,” and “un-engaged,” pretty much described both her mental status as well as her entire life right now.

“Deep repetitive leg lunges will create firm buttocks and thighs that will attract everyone’s attention,” Ginger said. “Switch legs.”

Ginger was obviously into torture. Was she a murderer as well? Annie wondered. “Ginger, do you think Derrick attracted the wrong person’s attention?” She asked and lunged with her other leg in front.

“Hold it. Count of five. One…” Ginger instructed. “Obviously Derrick pissed someone off. Four. Five.”

Annie shook out her leg and rubbed her thigh. “There was a rumor that Derrick had other trainers besides you. Got a jealous streak, Ginger?”

“Only when it concerns Heidi Klum. Side three,” Ginger said. “Left leg.”

Annie lunged and her leg muscles quivered. “I think I have tetanus. Do you think it’s contagious?” she asked.

“I think you need to work out more,” Ginger said. “Hold the lunge. One. Derrick was good with form, but had some trouble with balance in his personal life.”

She held the lunge - her left knee wobbling back and forth over her left ankle. Yeah there, Annie could do this excessive exercise stuff. Not.

Ginger reached out and gently guided Annie’s bent knee. “It’s crucial that you keep your knee perfectly aligned over you ankle.”

That’s when Annie felt it. Her mouth felt thick. Her mouth felt sticky. And, her taste buds did the happy dance. She hoped this was a good thing.

“I’m thorry? You thaid?” Annie asked.

Ginger looked at her oddly. “Don’t do a deep lunge without proper knee/ankle alignment.”

“Yeth, I unerthand.” Annie mentally whipped through her remaining active brain cells to identify the cause of her new lisp.

Ginger regarded her concerned and whipped her hand off Annie’s knee. “Stop exercising, immediately. Are you dizzy? Tingly? History of stroke in your family?”

“No throke!” Annie said. What was it? Her taste buds popped up, like three geeky high school students in the front row waving their hands high in the air. They had the answer. They said, “Peanut Butter Mouth.”

“Do you prether Thiffy or Peter Pan? Thooth or crunthy?” Annie asked.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ginger huffed.

“Oh, yeth you do. You’re theriously addicted to peanuth butther. Even now ath we work out, all you think abouth is peanuth butther. I underthand. Ith Kettle potato chipth for me.”

“So, Derrick told you my secret,” Ginger said. “That means you’re one of Derrick’s Darlings.”

“I have never been a Darling!” Annie said.

“Fine. There was never only one, as far as I know of, in Derrick’s life. He promised me a hot career and some great modeling gigs. He came through. I miss the skinny little runt.”

“I don’t,” Annie said.

“Ginger always told me I was lean and mean.” Derrick pouted.

“Who do you think killed Derrick? And why?” Annie asked.

“I don’t know,” Ginger said. “Someone who was jealous of Derrick. His lifestyle. Who he hung out with.”

Annie grimaced and shook out her left leg.

“Will today’s session be $200 in cash or check?” Ginger asked.

There went the money for a third of her electric bill.

Annie wobbled towards the time card slot in Feinberg’s Famous Deli’s Back Back Kitchen. Her legs quivered. She placed her hands behind her thighs and helped them walk forward. She could barely lift her arms up to put the timecard in the slot.

“Hurry up,” Derrick said. “If you’re late, his assistant will cancel your appointment and you won’t get in for another three months. They’re brutal over there, I’m warning you. This might be your toughest interview yet.”

Great, she thought as she waddled off. What could be worse? Would they make her eat worms? Cover her in honey and drop her hog-tied onto an anthill? Recall caffeine? Force her to go vegan?

Annie stood on the sidewalk under the white, twenty-story medical complex. The large sign out front of the two tall rectangular buildings read, “St. Cecelia’s Hospital Medical Offices.” Lovely. She was back at the scene of the original crime. The joyful Valentine’s Day when she was poked, prodded in her privates and stabbed in the heart when she received photos of her husband cheating with the most irritating man in the world. What a difference a few minutes could make.

A guy walked past Annie. He yapped on his blue tooth while he sucked on a cigarette, the smoke curled towards heaven. She stared at him, closed her eyes and sniffed. The cigarette was American, not a light, not menthol and would taste so friggin’ good right now that she actually considered biting the guy. She dug through her purse for a patch. No patch. God damn it, no patch! Now would be the perfect time for one last smoke. Just one last teeny-tiny smoke and she’d say goodbye to this old lover, forever. For good. Really, she meant it this time.

Derrick watched Annie eyeing the smoking man. “No!” He hollered and stepped between her and the man.

Annie strode through Derrick, walked up to the man and tapped him on his shoulder. He turned, looked at her, curious, and blew smoke in her face. She inhaled and smiled. “Excuse me, Sir,” she said. “Can I bum a smoke?”

He nodded at her. “Yeah, probably straight to DVD,” he said, dug though his pocket, pulled out a pack of smokes, smacked the bottom and a cig popped out.

Annie’s hand trembled as she pulled the cig out of the pack. “Thank you,” she said.

“Welcome,” the man said and walked off.

Annie held the cig to her nose. Smelled it. Stuck it in her mouth. Dug through her purse and realized she had nothing to light it. “Damn!” she said.

“No!” Derrick exclaimed. “You’ve gone weeks without a smoke. You are not going back. I promise – you will quit smoking.”

“You’re dead,” Annie said.

“So will you be soon, if you keep smoking,” Derrick countered.

“You’re dead and you never smoked.”

“Oh please,” Derrick said and smiled, smug. “‘Smoking isn’t the accurate word. I sizzled.”

“If you want to promise me something, it’s got to be better than giving up smokes.” Annie stuck the cig in her purse.

“I’m sorry, Cupcake, but I can’t accompany you up there,” Derrick said and pointed to St. Cecelia’s medical towers. “I’ve got terrible anxiety about doctors’ visits. But I’ll wait for you here. And no sneaking a cancer stick behind my back.”

“Fine,” Annie said and walked into the lobby of St. Cecelia’s Medical Complex, alone.

Derrick was wrong-o bong-o about this suspect interview, thought Annie. Everyone at the front desk couldn’t have been nicer. This upscale Westside Los Angeles doctor’s waiting room had better magazines – up to date People, Vanity Fair and a couple of Derrick’s I Promise books. During the forty-five minutes between signing in and the receptionist calling Annie’s name, she skimmed Derrick Fuller’s first I Promise book.

Now she sat in a small room with a window that overlooked the Pacific Ocean while she waited for Dr. Stern, Derrick’s former dermatologist. She reclined in a cushy chair dressed in a soft gown. God, these gowns were so much nicer than those scratchy paper one-ply towel things they used down the hall at the evil Oby-Gyne office.

The first chapter in Derrick’s second book briefly mentioned his fight with testicular cancer when he was around thirty years old. Weird. She never knew Derrick had cancer. Didn’t realize he’d lost part of his privates in the battle. Maybe that explained his excessive sexual proclivities and need to look perfect. He had surgery, radiation, underwent chemo and survived the whole ordeal.

Dr. Stern walked in the door. He looked a little like Groucho Marx, smiled at Annie and introduced himself. “Very nice to meet you, Ms. Graceland. My name is Dr. Stern. I heard you were referred by our dearly departed friend, Dr. Derrick Fuller.” He shook her hand.

“Yes,” Annie said. “Let’s put our cards on the table, Doctor Stern. I was never a Darling. Were you?”

“No,” Stern laughed. “I paid Derrick a lot of  bucks to help me build my practice. He encouraged me to put my money on a little pony called Bo-tox. The rest is history. Business is booming and no one in Los Angeles has eye wrinkles or those squint lines, also called, ‘the elevens,’ between their eyebrows. That is, besides you.”

“Oh,” Annie said and frowned.

“Ah!” Dr. Stern said. “That’s the facial expression that creates the elevens. You must train yourself to never frown. Or, get Bo-tox. We can do that right now, no problem.” He turned and pulled open a drawer filled with syringes.

She caught a glimpse of herself in one Dr. Stern’s many mirrors, widened her eyes and kept a straight face. She looked like a zombie.

“I assumed that’s the reason for your appointment today,” Dr. Stern said, turned around and headed towards her forehead with a syringe.

Uh-oh. She’d forgotten that part. “Thanks, but no thanks on the Bo-tox,” Annie said. But, why was she at a dermatologist’s office besides asking the usual question: Did Dr. Stern kill, or have a clue as to who else might have killed, Derrick Fuller. She blinked. “Actually, I’m here because…”

“Don’t tell me, I already spotted it. Oh, the things we do in our youth,” Dr. Stern replied. He grabbed her forearm, turned it over and looked at her small, no-bigger-than-a-nickel heart-shaped prison tattoo. “You got this in juvie, right?”

Annie looked shocked. Did she look like the type that would break the law? Bending was a completely different issue. “No, that’s…”

“Not a problem,” Dr. Stern said. “We can laser that puppy off. Funny. Just last week I removed the same tattoo from another patient, also referred by Dr. Fuller. Maybe you were in juvie together.”

Annie pulled her arm away from Dr. Stern. “Did you kill Dr. Derrick Fuller, or do you know who did?” She asked.

“Oh, my. Is that what landed you in juvie? An accidental homicide. Well, you’re older now, and hopefully a productive member of society,” Dr. Stern said. “The tattoo removal will burn a little. It might take a couple of treatments. It’s a cosmetic procedure and your insurance won’t cover it.” There was a knock on the door.

Another white-coated man stepped into the room, closed the door with his back towards them.

“You can arrange for payment with my assistants, up front.” Dr. Stern said.

“Um,” Annie said. She liked her fake prison tat.

“Meet my new intern, Dr. Putter. He’ll be performing the procedure on you today. Take her blood pressure first, Dr. Putter.”

An attractive young woman perched on a bench next to the entrance to St. Cecelia’s Hospital and Medical Offices and read a book. Derrick reclined, rested his head on her lap and tried to relax. He had no idea why this young woman kept squirming and twitching. That’s when he heard Annie’s screams emanating above him from St. Cecelia’s Medical Offices.

Annie sat on the sand on Venice Beach close to the water and watched the waves crash.

Derrick hovered next to her.

“Have a seat,” she said, patted the sand next to her and looked at her tattoo.

“No, I don’t want sand up my tushie,” Derrick said. “Trust me, it’s enormously uncomfortable. I’ll sit on your purse.”

“My purse is a Coach. Sit on my purse and you won’t see the end of today, let alone the After-Life,” she said, pulled a couple of tissues out of her purse and handed them to Derrick.

He put them under his blue behind and sat down next to her on the sand.

“Dr. Stern’s not your killer. Why didn’t you tell me about your cancer?”

“Why did it take you so long to read one of my books?”

Annie sighed. “You know my story, Derrick.”

“And maybe now, you know part of mine,” Derrick said. They looked away from each other.

“I wanted marriage, and a family and my own business. Call me selfish, crazy, but I wanted it all.”

“I wanted it all, too. I didn’t ask for the cancer.”

“I didn’t ask for early peri-menopause, and a cheating husband.”

“Possibly cheating husband,” Derrick said. “I’ve come to appreciate your… efforts on my behalf. I’d like to offer you something personal. Something that could reward you for your hard work.”

“I just need a new life. And maybe some hope. Hope would be really nice.”

“I’ve got several tubes of hope at St. Cecelia’s Sperm Bank. You can have a tube, if they haven’t already been destroyed.”

“What are you talking about?” Annie said, turned and stared at him.

Power Puffs

Description: Home made granola bars with oats and dried berry bits sprinkled with a tad of cinnamon and protein powder.

Appropriate Occasions: After interviewing suspects. Too much exercise. Returning to the scene of the crime. White coat terror syndrome.

Best Served With: Generous portions of less than perfect thighs and buns.

EIGHTEEN

Baby Blues

“You want a baby,” Derrick said, and faced the setting sun. “I’ve got frozen sperm I’m willing to give you. However, after the lawyers read my new will, my seed will be destroyed within forty-eight hours.”

Annie looked shocked. “That’s nice of you to offer, Derrick. Thoughtful. But maybe Tawny wants to have a baby with your manly popsicles?”

“I don’t think Tawny’s the mothering type. Ages ago, I promised a vial of my gold medal swimmers to someone else. But, I do believe, there’s plenty to go around. Until my new will is read, my offer stands,” Derrick said and draped his arm around her shoulders.

“I’m single, I’m broke. My life isn’t stable. I’m a mess,” Annie said. “Right now is not the best time for me to be thinking babies.”

“I think you’re lovely,” Derrick said.

She sighed. She and Derrick watched the sun set. Not quite friends, but not complete enemies.

It was late afternoon, and Annie was back at the Shrine. Daylight Savings time change had come and gone, and the days stayed lighter later. Today was an official holiday for somebody dead who used to be important. Therefore, in the name of peace and love, the Shrine was open a little longer than normal. Annie walked in the front gate and chugged down the path that surrounded the Shrine’s pond. She wore camouflage patterned board shorts, a Concrete Blonde t-shirt, and her hair was tucked under a ball cap. She sported big sunglasses and a backpack.

The truce between her and Derrick broke earlier that morning when she caught him peeking at her through the curtain as she showered. Now he followed her. “Get busy, Sweetie. I’m exhausted. I’ll be napping in yonder rowboat,” he said, and pointed to a boat tethered yards from a small pier. “It’s poetic, don’t you think. It’s where I reclined while I waited for you to conjure me up from just a pinch of my potent cremains.”

“Whatever, dorko.” Annie saw Pimply Monk, who was still pimply and eyeballed her legs as he hand weeded a garden area yards away from her. She planned to elude the monks by entering their property during an off time. Guess that hadn’t happened. She hoped Pimply didn’t recognize her. She walked past him and chanted in a monotone German-Hindu under her breath. Chanting would fit in with the shrine’s regulars and might soothe and distract him. (Why German? For some reason L.A. had tons of tourists from Deutche-land. And Nancy her Lutheran German mother taught her a few words. Why Hindu? Could have been fondue, ’cause Annie made it up.)  “Einz vie drie, Heinz ketchup, sprechen-zie,” she chanted and passed Pimply without being apprehended. Her legs, however, did feel pinched and fondled. Thanks again for her empathic gift.

The Shrine was still startling beautiful. How many flowers and cedar chips could one place that was still, technically, in the late winter season hold? Did someone, probably Silver Monk, think about how the sun pierced the beginnings of the late afternoon ocean mist and filtered through the tree branches? Why did all the tree branches glimmer with light? It reminded Annie of the aftermath of the big Oconomowoc ice storm back in 1977. The blinding shine reflected off the ice covered tree branches, roads, ponds, lakes, as well as Mrs. Stumpledum’s upside down Pomeranian dog that was found frozen in the icy puddle at the bottom of her driveway.

Memories of Derrick’s memorial service, the night she botched Nonna Maria’s Get Rid of Dead Assholes spell, when she unfortunately conjured Derrick’s ghost, bounced through her head with every step. Maybe she was having a bad flashback from some wilder time in her life when she didn’t, “Just Say No.” Or maybe the Shrine was a pretty, warmer version of hell frozen over.

Annie looked at the pond and the foliage now, but with purpose. She searched for the perfect spot for her mission. This expedition was for her, not Derrick. It was for her broken heart, tired eyes, sore arms, and the overwhelming need to pay her bills and rent. This mission was for her sanity. She strode past a bench next to the large plaque that proclaimed right here, was a Ghandi ash.

An older couple sat on the bench. The woman had helmet hair and wore a plum colored velour jumpsuit. The man had a cane and a pair of binocs that he trained on Annie’s behind as she passed them.

Bootsy and Bob Bauerfeld were back at the Shrine, weeks after Derrick’s memorial. Bootsy noticed Bob’s noticing Annie’s shapely behind. She frowned and elbowed him. He jumped. “You said animal watching, Mr. Family Values,” Bootsy said.

Bob slumped and trained his binocs back on the pond.

Annie walked to the spot where Derrick’s memorial plaque was cemented into the ground. That would be a totally sweet place to launch her mission. Maybe she’d even spit on it again. But, when she got closer, she realized it wouldn’t work, ’cause some twenty something blondie guy crouched over it, and wept.

Blondie’s head was in his hands; his long perfect Breck hair shimmered with highlights as it shook across his wide Abercrombie and Fitch model-like shoulders with each sob.

Woos, thought Annie. Most likely another I Promise, loser. She trekked further down the trail and circled the pond ’till she found a spot that could, if she was willing to get a little dirty, work. Yeah there. Since when was a girl from Wisconsin scared of getting dirty? Not her, not now. Oddly, the not-so-perfect spot was directly across the pond from where Derrick’s memorial service was held. It had plenty of foliage and trees, loud ducks and a few swans. No monks. No Derrick. No blondie crying guy.

Annie hopped off the trail and navigated through scads of fronds and lilies peppered in bird poop in a patch of muddy ground that sloped to the pond. She made her way down the small landing, but slipped and her legs flew out from underneath her. She landed on her butt, slid a couple of feet down the incline and knocked over a few irritated and loud birds. Two ducks pecked her leg. A swan bit her arm. Annie waved her arms and legs and glared at them. Thought those hateful birds were like cute innocent looking feathered pit bulls.

She pushed herself off her back and swatted the swan. “I respect PETA’s intentions. However, I will happily turn you into a purse,” she said. “And you!” She pointed at one of the vicious ducks. “I would tenderly roast you with a Cointreaux flavored orange sauce and serve you with baby greens and sautéed carrots.” She hollered and pushed them off her. They waddled off, squawking.

The young blond male hottie stood up, and looked up at her from across the pond. He wiped a few tears away and stared at her, confused.

She glared back at him. He looked familiar, but being that she was covered in bird crap and nursing pecked legs, she simply couldn’t concentrate on why beautiful blondie didn’t register on her man-dar.

“No, I didn’t mean you, Lars,” she hollered at him. “Just meditate or get your highlights re-done.”

He stopped looking at her and squatted back down next to Derrick’s commemorative plaque.

God help her, if she saw Blondie crying again, she’d send that mean little pecker of a swan after him. Then he’d have something to cry about, for real.

She crouched on the dirt, pulled off her shirt and revealed a cute bikini top. She pulled skin diver goggles and a snorkel out of her backpack and placed them on her head. Rolled up her pants legs to the tippy top of her legs. She looked at the gray and green pond water that resembled a toxic soup with sprinkles of botulism and flesh eating bacteria. “I can do this,” she said. Took a deep breath, and let it out.

“I have no doubts, Cupcake,” Derrick replied as he reclined in the rowboat, arms stretched overhead. He caught a glimpse of blondie and sat straight up, startled. One of his hands flew to his chest.

The Observer crouched in Australian tea-tree bushes close to the Shrine’s pond, and watched the blonde guy who hovered over Derrick’s plaque. The Observer spotted Annie on the pond’s bank directly across from the guy. She wore a bikini top covered in daisies and waded into the pond. Bitch! The Observer had warned Dimwit the other night. But, apparently she was stupid or lucky because Dimwit was always showing up in the right place, most of the time. Someone had to be feeding her info. Who? The blonde guy crying over Derrick’s memorial plaque? Annie the baker was supposed to be a patsy, a set-up, and a throwaway clue for the cops to wonder about for years after Derrick’s murder investigation went cold. Or maybe, in a perfect world, an I Promise world, L.A.’s finest would get frustrated and find enough evidence to pin Derrick’s murder on Ms. Annie Graceland soon-to-be-formerly, Piccolino.

But this ongoing chase, this time spent, jeopardized the big goal. Nothing mattered but the big goal. The Observer was running out of time, and definitely out of patience. Because the Observer had followed the blonde guy here, not Annie. This was all so unnecessary and exhausting. The Observer couldn’t deal with any more exhaustion, any more stress. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Time to give a major shock.

Annie waded through the pond’s murky waters about twenty-five feet out from Derrick’s plaque. If she was lucky, her engagement and wedding rings were still there, at the bottom of the pond, resting on rocks or sand. If she were unlucky, some stupid fish or bird had gobbled her baubles. She’d probably get in trouble if she had a fish fry and bird BBQ on the Shrine’s property. Especially if someone caught her. But, finding her engagement and wedding rings, and pawning them, would cover another month or two of rent and bills. Right now paying her bills and staying afloat, was month by month. It was a sad truth, but since she moved to L.A., she realized lots of people lived just that way. She took a deep breath, stuck her head in the pond water, next her shoulders, then her entire body and waded in.

She swam inches from the bottom of the pond, squinted through her mask and searched for her rings. She picked up and pocketed some American and a bunch of Euro coins. If she combed the whole pond she might get enough to pay for a couple gallons of gas. When she spotted something small, round and glimmery at the bottom of the pond just yards in front of her. Air bubbles escaped in a burst from her snorkel.

She pinwheeled her arms, stuck her head out of the water, and gasped for breath. The duck she threatened with orange sauce paddled towards her, determined, like a feathered Jaws. She looked at the rowboat – no Derrick. But the small glint twinkled again from the bottom of the pond. Could those be her rings? The ones she tossed in anger the night she conjured Dr. Derrick Fuller from the dead? What the hell, they waited for her and she wasn’t going to let them just sit there. She re-adjusted her mask and snorkel, took a deep breath and dove.

The Observer watched Dimwit dive again and pulled something from a knapsack. It was round, twelve inches across in length, and six inches deep. It was festively colored and looked like it was made of metal. The Observer lifted it up and down, several times. It wasn’t light and seemed solid. The Observer had realized Derrick lied over and over, and screwed up the plan. The Observer was not left with a choice. Simply had to let go of Derrick, in order to protect all that was sacred and life affirming. Now this Dimwit bitch, who was supposed to be a patsy, endangered the plan. Revenge was sweet – but priorities? First, beautiful blondie, then Dimwit patsy in the bikini top.

A small portion of Annie’s butt rose above the pond water, and slowly swam towards the opposite shore. Her shorts were a muddy camouflage green-brown, soaking wet and almost blended with the murky water.

From his position on the bench next to Ghandi’s ash, Bob Bauerfeld jumped like when he’d been hit with the resuscitating paddles after his first heart attack. “Bootsy!” He pointed to Annie’s butt. “Look! An endangered species.  A Bifurcated African Turtle. Get the camera phone.”

“Oh, Bob. So exciting!” Bootsy said, dug through her purse and pulled it out. “You’re the technical one. What do I do?”

“Aim and shoot, Boots. It’s immortality and the cincher for our new ad campaign. I promise you.”

The Observer cradled the large metallic weapon. Snuck through the beautiful bushes, the flowering plants, and stood three feet away from Derrick’s memorial plaque. The Observer surveyed the pond – Dimwit wasn’t visible. The Observer regarded the gorgeous blondie who knelt at Derrick’s plaque.

“I miss you,” Blondie said, stared at the plaque and his lower lip quivered.

The Observer stepped out from the bushes. “I know who you are,” the Observer said and noted the young man’s tiny, almost imperceptible accent.

Blondie looked up, wiped a tear away from one of his impossibly high photogenic cheekbones. “Then, you know why I’m sad.”

“Maybe you should go with him,” the Observer said.

“I can’t,” Blondie said and stroked Derrick’s plaque. “He’s dead.”

“A tragedy,” the Observer replied and pointed to Annie’s butt that crested in the pond several yards from them. “What’s that?”

Blondie turned and looked. The Observer took the opportunity to smash him over his head repetitively with the weapon until he fell into the pond; face down, bleeding from his head and neck. The Observer threw the weapon at his back. Watched as blondie’s muscular shoulders and jeans that hugged his perfect tight butt sank in the pond. “Derrick promised me! Promised me before he ever even knew you,” the Observer hissed. “I saw the bus station pictures. I took the bus station pictures. You should never have come here, let alone stayed.”

Big statement accomplished. The Observer walked, then jogged down the path and exited through the Shrine’s front gates.

Annie was underwater. Her rings were about two feet from her grasp. Yay! She’d recover her tokens of eternal love and trust and sell them to a diamond dealer. It was, after all, Los Angeles where diamond brokers were as common as 7-11s or White-Hen-Pantries back in the Midwest. First she’d pay her rent. Then the bills: phone, gas, electric, cell phone, internet/cable, health insurance, federal taxes, state taxes, her CPA, first credit card, second credit card, the annuity retirement thing, car payment (yes, she was still paying for that piece of shit-oops-classic automobile), a couple of trashy magazines, the outstanding balance at the vet’s office for Teddy’s health issue. She’d pay back her loans to her friends, family and the lawyer for the marital filings. Probably five more things she’d currently forgotten.

She shivered under water. Her feet tingled from the cold. But in her sight, right in front of her, just one stroke away, were her rings. She swam, grabbed them. Mission accomplished! She stuck them on her fourth finger, left hand. But they didn’t fit. Apparently, stress had made not just her butt fatter, but also her fingers. Fine. She shoved the rings on her pinky finger.

But, why was the water suddenly tinged in red? A large hand landed on her facemask. She screamed underwater, which was not a good thing as she spit out her snorkeling tube. Blondie sank in the water in front of her. Blood seeped from his head and face. He didn’t look good, but he didn’t look dead, either. Then, she heard Derrick in her head and saw him underwater, waving his hands, apoplectic.

“You have to rescue him. Now!” Derrick hollered.

She watched Blondie sink. Looked like he weighed way more than she did. She swam as fast as she could through the muck, got underneath him and pushed him up from the bottom of the pond to the surface. Their heads broke through the water and she gasped for air. Blondie didn’t. Not a good sign.

Drenched in pond scum, covered in moss and fighting lilies, Annie towed Blondie to the shore, where he landed, still not breathing. She pushed him onto his side and pounded on his back. He gagged out water. She straddled him and pushed on his sternum multiple times. He hacked out some water, green goop and breathed, ragged, shallow. She ripped some fabric from the hem of her shorts and held it to his head in an attempt to quell the bleeding. But there was so much blood.

Meanwhile, Pimply Monk saw the crazy goings on and raced towards her. His eyes were wide and dilated.

“You. Call 911! Now!” Annie yelled. “You break your vow of silence and tell them what’s going on or I’ll personally rip out your tongue so you will never speak, again. Got it?”

Pimply turned white, pulled a cell out of his pocket and dialed 911. And told the operator in a whisper, where and what the emergency was.

Annie gave Blondie mouth to mouth. His breathing was stronger, thank God. Color seeped back into his cheeks. His head was beat up, bloody, but he reached his hand tenuously across the wet dirt. He found Annie’s hand and squeezed it. In the distance she heard sirens.

She also heard Derrick, his voice low. “Tell Franco his dad loves him, but it’s not time for him to join him.”

“What? Why do you care? Who’s his Dad?” Annie asked.

“Because I love Franco,” Derrick popped up above the pond’s surface next to her. “Because he’s my son.”

Annie stroked Blondie’s hand and repeated Derrick’s words. Blondie squeezed her hand again. “The pictures. Bus station,” he said, and then passed out.

Sirens rang from approaching police cars. Pimply Monk jumped up and down, pointing and waving. Paramedics armed with their gear sprinted towards the pond. They hooked Blondie up to an oxygen mask, put a sturdy neck brace on him strapped him to a stretcher and took his vitals.

Annie thought that if luck were on everyone’s side, Blondie might make it.

Annie sat in the St. Cecelia’s Hospital emergency waiting room. She lowered her rolled-up board shorts back down to a decent level. There was a gaping hole in her pants where she had harvested fabric to staunch Blondie’s wounds. That hole flashed way too much of her upper right thigh. Pond goop dried in her hair. She’d told the cops who showed up at the Shrine that she was retrieving her rings when she spotted Blondie sinking in the water, and rescued him. She didn’t mention the spare change she pocketed. She also didn’t tell the police whom Blondie was related to ’cause she needed time to think about that angle. Who wanted both Derrick and his son dead, as well as the big question – why?

The Bauerfelds and Pimply Monk had not witnessed the attack and didn’t have a lot to tell the police. The police retrieved what they thought to be the weapon in the assault. It was a round festive holiday tin that sported a label that described its contents – a two-year-old fruitcake from Country March. The same upscale deli that used to carry Annie’s baked goods.

Derrick sat next to Annie on the uncomfortable chairs in St. Cecelia’s Hospital emergency waiting room. His skin tone was a little gray. “I can’t rouse them,” he said. “They won’t talk to me. They don’t see me.”

“Who do you mean ‘they’?” Annie asked. Her eyes narrowed and she looked around the emergency room. “Dead people? Do you see dead people, Derrick?”

“God, no. The medical doctors. They’re in their own little world. They seem a little arrogant.”

She patted his dead arm. “Let me see what I can do.” She got up and walked down the hallway.

She spotted a door labeled, “Intern Lounge – No Entrance.” She jiggled the door handle. It wasn’t locked. She walked inside. If they really meant, “No Entrance,” they should have made it a little tougher to get in.

Moments later, she walked out of the lounge with her hair in a surgical hairnet. She wore scrubs and a long white doctor’s coat with a nametag that read, “Dr. Sanjay Patel, M.D.”

Annie stood and Derrick knelt next to the ICU bedside of Franco, Derrick’s son. There were beeping machines and IV lines hooked to drips and a blood pressure clamp on Franco’s finger. He was unconscious with multiple abrasions and cuts on his still-beautiful face. Someone had been sweet and wiped most of the blood off his face and hairline. But that person couldn’t wipe away the swelling, dark bruises and funky misaligned boney angles from the facial fractures and other traumas.

“Oh, God. He’ll be okay, right?” Derrick asked and raked his fingers through his hair. “What does the chart say?”

Annie, aka Dr. Sanjay Patel, perused Franco’s chart quickly. “Says he’s male, twenty-one-years old. His name is Franco Fennedy, and his emergency contact person is Clarissa Driver? That name sounds familiar. Why didn’t you tell me you had a son?”

“It’s complicated,” Derrick said but wouldn’t meet her look.

“You’re dead, Derrick. Your son, Franco, is damn lucky to be lying in a hospital bed when he should be dead now, too. I think that’s complicated. Telling the truth will be a breeze. Details, now.”

Derrick stroked Franco’s hand. “I didn’t know until about a year ago. I hooked up with a beautiful eighteen year old girl when I was in my late twenties, and frankly, sowing some oats. Clarissa never told me she was pregnant. Her family was wealthy and politically prominent. She was a college freshman. Two months after we started dating she said her parents decided she needed a more rounded, international education. They shipped her to Argentina for a ‘multi-cultural’ year abroad. Twenty years later, Clarissa calls out of the blue. She told me in a dark restaurant in a back booth over some great scotch and Argentinean steaks, that on that ‘year abroad,’ she had our baby and named him Franco.”

“Wait a minute,” Annie said. “Clarissa Driver? Governor Driver’s wife? Yeah there, I’d say she’s politically prominent.”

“Franco was adopted by a family friend in Argentina. Now he wanted, no, demanded, to meet his biological parents,” Derrick said. “I met him for the first time at the bus station in downtown L.A. Obviously someone took pictures and twisted them. Franco’s a great kid. He’s got Clarissa’s smarts, both of our looks and his own, very sweet innocent take on the world. The modeling was my idea. He could earn some money while he decided where he wanted to go to college and what career he wished to pursue. He’s my kid, Annie. He’s a good kid.” Derrick squeezed Franco’s hand. “Come on, son. You can fight this.”

Annie hid a tear. “Look Derrick. Once the cops read his chart, they’ll track down his mom. And, eventually make the connection between you and Franco. Do we need to warn Clarissa?”

“No,” Derrick said as he looked up and saw Detectives Rafe Campillio and Kyle Pardue approach the ICU nurses’ station. “Her family knows everything. They’re political mafia. I need you to call my plastic surgeon, Dr. Bronson.”

“Where’s the money coming from to cover the work?”

“What I left Franco in my new will can easily pay the bill.”

“Has your new will even been read, yet?”

“I don’t know. Jeez, I’m dead, give a guy a break. Ask Lewis Scuchiani, my attorney. He has all my wills,” Derrick said and pouted.

Aah, Lewis Schuchiani. Annie was headed to the little celebration for Lewis’s making Junior Partner in less than forty-eight hours. Actually, her alter ego, Duchess Myra Stoneycliff, was invited to the reception. Was Lewis the missing link in the hunt for Derrick’s killer?

When Annie overheard, “I’m Detective Rafe Campillio. Is the victim conscious? We need to interview him.” From the sound of Rafe’s voice, he was down the corridor, just yards away.

A nurse answered. “I’m sorry, Detectives. You have to wait until Mr. Fennedy is stable.”

“I’m Detective Kyle Pardue. We need to talk to him, ASAP.”

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me,” the nurse said. “Franco Fennedy is unconscious and not responding verbally. We’ll let you know, as soon as he can be interviewed.”

There was a pause. Then Annie overheard, “Oh, come on, Rafe. Chances are I pinch the guy and he wakes up. We’re here. We have to at least try. I’m going with or without you,” Kyle said.

Annie’s eyes widened as she peeked through the crack in the curtain surrounding Franco’s bed, and watched Kyle approach the cubicle. “I’m out of here, Derrick,” she said as she snuck out of the cubicle and made her way down the hallway.

She wanted to bolt but forced herself to walk down the ICU hallway. She took deep breaths in and out, and strode past a hundred hospital cubicles, lots of weird equipment and mobs of white-coated professionals. Who all seemed to stare at her muddy hair that poked out of her surgical cap. She needed a distraction. To appear even more doctor-like, she reached into Dr. Patel’s medical jacket, lo and behold, pulled out his cell, and pretended to talk on it. “Blah blah. Yes, doctor. Sorry about the hemorrhoids. Ah, yes, the X-rays for the multiple contusions of the peripheral handicapped preakness candidates were positive for whooping cough and cantaloupes. I do believe the patient will live. No, the varicose veins must stay.”

Annie made it to the emergency room waiting area and walked out the sliding doors to the parking lot. She pulled off the doctor’s coat and tossed it into a waste can. Hustled to her car and zoomed off.

Detective Rafe Campillio had followed ‘Dr. Sanjay Patel’ down the hospital hallways, stood at the emergency waiting room doors and watched as Annie Rose left the hospital and trashed her scrubs in the garbage can. Thankfully, horn dog Kyle was still at the ICU desk passing out his cards to every female nurse and staff person.

Rafe knew that Annie Graceland, the nice young lady who rescued one lucky guy Franco Fennedy, knew a little more than Annie Piccolino, the baker in the Fuller homicide, had let on. This would be an interesting conversation.

When Kyle ran into the room. “I confirmed with the police on the scene. Annie Rose Graceland’s the good sam that rescued the drowning guy. I’m going over there right now and put the pressure on. Hard and firm, if you know what I mean. No need for the both of us to go - I’ll tell you about it later.”

Rafe sighed. “I’m going with you.”

Annie entered her apartment, dying for peace, quiet and a long shower or tub bath with mineral salts and a pound of penicillin for good measure. She carried the 8 X 10 envelope that she and Derrick had retrieved from the desk drawer in Franco’s apartment after they left the hospital.

She’d already checked out the envelope’s contents. More disturbing photos, this time of Derrick with Franco. As creepy as Derrick was, she didn’t pin him for an incestuous type. She therefore surmised most of the photos were altered. Which raised more questions, especially about the Mike and Derrick photos.

Teddy sat on her couch. Two bottles of Dom Perignon champagne rested on top of him. His blue eyes were completely crossed, a sure sign of major cat irritation. The smell of weed wafted through the air. The smoke was so thick that when Annie squinted, she could almost see pot plants hanging upside down in the air. Two water goblets with drops of champagne in their bottoms sat on the kitchen-living room divider countertop. She slipped Franco’s envelope under hers and Sienna’s and covered them with a stack of unpaid bills. She turned on the oven. Pulled a tray of cookie dough dollops out of the fridge, plopped it on the counter, and pulled off the sheet of saran wrap that covered it.

Loud giggles emanated from her bathroom. Julia and Grady. High and drunk again. They’d soon be raiding her kitchen for munchies. “Hey,” Annie said. “What’s the occasion?” They probably didn’t have one, but it was good to enter with a positive question, not negative commentary, like “I love you like family, but stop using my apartment as your druggie crash pad.” She slipped the tray of cookies in the oven.

More giggles from the bathroom. “Guess what?” Grady slurred.

“What?” Annie asked, grabbed the champagne bottles and lifted them off Teddy, who still looked pissed.

“We’re celllllllebratinggggg!” Julia said.

Dear God, they were both tanked. At least her special wedding anniversary libations had gone to good use, entertaining her best buddies.

“I got Bill Gable a deal. First offense, no prior, upstanding citizen, distraught father, blah, blah. A year in minimum security, including time served,” Julia bragged.

Annie dumped the empty champagne bottles in the small plastic recycling bin on the kitchen floor.

“That’s great, Julia!”

Suddenly Madonna’s Vogue rang out from her speakers at club jam volume.

“Turn that down, now,” Annie said. “Might piss off my new neighbors.”

Madonna wailed and crooned through the speakers, “Vogue, vogue, vogue, vogue, vogue – Let your body groove to the music.”

Grady flew out of the bathroom. He was naked except for his tightie whities, which were pulled up and squeezed between his butt cheeks, to resemble a thong. “My script, Diary of a Dead Guy, got accepted into the United Filmmakers’ Program. I’m going to the show!” He clutched a hairbrush as a mic, sang along as best his drugged self could to the Madonna song. “Look at me! I’m the oh-so-popular Dr. Derrick Fuller!” he said and did two pelvic thrusts to the right and a hip thrust to the left. His arms undulated overhead.

“That’s awesome, Grade,” Annie said. She picked up her stack of mail and sorted through it. Tossed the crap, kept the pink notices.

“This doesn’t thrill me. No mention of a feature with my name attached.” Derrick said.

“I don’t think they care,” Annie noticed her electric bill deepened from pink to fuchsia. The gas bill had a note on it that read, “No, really. It’s time to open this.”

Her phone rang in the kitchen. Her answering machine picked up. “Annie Rose, pick up your phone. It’s your mother. Remember me?”

She grabbed the phone. “Hey, Mom.”

“Are you having a party? Do you think that’s prudent so soon after your operation?”

“Separation, Mom. Mike and I are separated.” Sometimes her mom was scary prophetic in her choice of malapropisms. ’Cause her split with Mike felt like several very bloody operations. A lobotomy. A heart excision. All four wisdom teeth pulled without any anesthesia by a really bad dentist who looked like Dr. Putter. But, officially… “It’s a marital separation, Mom.”

“Go Der-rick! Go Der-rick!” Julia shrieked. She jumped out of the bathroom doorway wearing a too-tight purple lacy corseted teddy showcasing her ample cleavage. Garter belts held up the hose on her curvy legs and she strutted in Annie’s Irena Dragoslava CFMPs. Unlike Annie, Julia could totally maneuver in high heels. “Guess whose I am, Annie? Guess whose I am!”

“Uh, Derrick Fuller?”

“No, silly. Think…” Julia dropped to one knee, gazed at the ceiling and swept her hands dramatically in a semicircle from the ceiling towards the floor and back again. “Go ahead, guess again. Guess!”

“That’s brilliant, Julia!” Grady said and stumbled backwards, his mostly naked behind headed south toward the couch aimed at Teddy, who at the last second, vaulted off. Teddy missed almost certain death by a drunken human behind. But cats had nine lives. That was his third.

“I guess that you’re… Tawny ‘Sunshine’ Fuller,” Annie said.

Julia screeched. “Yes! You’re the greatest! I love you!” Julia smooched her on the cheek, then turned and tackled Grady, who was seated, eyes half closed and listing forty-five degrees sideways on the couch. Julia grabbed the hairbrush mic and wrestled it away from Grady who squeaked before he collapsed flat out and drooled. Julia then jumped back up and mimed not only Madonna’s vocals with the hairbrush/mic, but implied her own version of possible sexual acts appropriate to the song’s lyrics.

“Ah. Memories. Sounds just like yesterday,” Nancy said over the phone. “I get nostalgic. Whole milk from Grutztaminer’s Dairy delivered to our front door step. Freshly baked cannollis dropped off by a tall guy with a nappy boot – ”

“Snappy suit, Mom.”

“Snappy suit, driving a Lincoln Towne Car all the way from Chicago, from Vito’s Bakery. Oh, those cannollis. Don’t get me started. And Julia; drunk, high, slutty and acting out. Twenty some years later still at it. Nothing’s changed since high school, eh? That girl should have skipped law school and just become an actress showing her boobies in grade B movies.”

A neighbor knocked on a wall adjoining Annie’s apartment. “Turn it down!”

“Absolutely!” Annie hollered back, then lowered her voice. “Julia, shush! Mom said you were talented even in high school and should have been an actress.”

“That’s sweet. All these years I never thought she liked me.”

Annie turned and whispered into the phone. “I’m kind of busy, right now, Mom. Talk to you, later.”

“Do you want me to call Julia’s mother? I heard she had her tires re-done and currently lives in Seizure World in The Goon’s Peach. Ask me, sounds like a possible Mob retirement community. Maybe that’s where Julia gets her movie money.”

“Lavonnia, Julia’s mother retired and lives in Leisure World in Laguna Beach, California.”

“Lavonnia would never move from Oklahoma to California.”

“Lavonnia moved to southern California when her fifth husband, Wayne Allright of Allrighty Tires in Tulsa, Oklahoma passed on to that big air pump in the sky. I love you, Mom. I have to go. Now.” Annie tried to put the phone down. But she couldn’t ’cause suddenly it felt  hot-glued to her hand and possessed by her mother’s insistent voice.

“Wait! I’ve got a message for you from….”

“Frankly, every time someone has a message for me, my life turns to shit. Love you, Mom. Bye bye,” she said. Her hand shook as she dropped the phone back into its cradle.

There was a knock on the door. Oh, how Annie loved unwanted and unexpected knocks on her door. They were always so inviting. Relaxing. Stroke producing. She leaned her head back and yelled, “I turned it down. I’m dealing with fools, idiots and family. What more do you want from me?”

Outside of Annie’s front door, Detectives Rafe Campillio and Kyle Pardue looked at each other. Pardue combed his hair, unbuttoned the top button on his shirt, popped an Altoid into his mouth and knocked on the door, again. Rafe wondered why Kyle didn’t just unzip his pants, pull out his pendejo, and knock it on the door as well. “Hey, Annie. It’s Detective Rafe Campillio. Is this a good time to talk?”

“Since when did you get all girly and ask if it’s a good time to talk to a suspect?” Kyle asked.

“Since when have you cared what I do?” Rafe said.

Kyle pointed both index fingers at Rafe. “Cha-Ching! Got me,” he said.

“Hello, Ms. Graceland. It’s Detective Kyle Pardue. I so enjoyed our conversation the other night on the Bollywood Two set. Did you get my card?”

Annie involuntarily gagged when she heard Kyle’s voice. She looked at Julia and Grady and whispered, “The cops! I told you to turn down the volume. I’d lay money they know you’re naked and high. I heard the pokey’s not a pretty place for drunkety nude artists.”

Julia and Grady freaked, grabbed their purse and backpack respectively and raced out the tangerine back door.

Derrick smiled. “Serves them right. Slackers. Thieves. Opportunists.”

“Familiar territory?” Annie said as she shut the tangerine door. “Hey, Detective Rafe. It’s more an… iffy time. One second,” she said and spritzed lavender spray multiple times through her teensy apartment.

She waited a couple of moments and opened her front door. “Hi, Rafe. Detective Pardue. Maybe you gentleman could call before you stopped by? I’ve been baking,” Annie said and walked towards her kitchen, head high.

Kyle looked at Rafe. “Oh, I’m “Detective”, and you’re just Rafe?” They walked inside and, at the exact same moment, sniffed. Repeatedly.

Okay, thought Annie. What smelled like pot that could she pretend was a culinary experiment gone wrong?

Derrick came to the rescue. He pointed to Grady’s clothes heaped in the corner. He pinched his nose with his fingers. She walked over, picked them up and sniffed. Perfect! His socks stunk like weed. She held them high over her head so Rafe and Kyle had to see them. “Can you believe it? My friend’s training for a marathon, got a blister, had to take off his socks and left them here. I’m sorry, they smell funny,” she said, placed the socks in her recycling bin and shoved it out her back door.

“Hey, I’ve got some fresh butter cookies in the oven,” Annie said.

Rafe and Kyle both stared as she bent over and pulled a tray of fresh cookies out of the oven. Rafe kept a poker face and hid his irritation. Kyle’s voice lowered. “Butter cookies in the oven. Come on, Rafe. She seemed pretty comfortable on the porn set.” He raised his voice to normal speaking level. “So, Ms. Graceland, you and Sienna Saffron long time friends?” He poked the couch’s creases and flipped its cushions, probably looking for pot buds or drug paraphernalia.

“No.” Annie frowned. “Recent,” she said and put the cookie tray on a cooling rack.

“What did you and Ms. Saffron have in common? Besides wanting Dr. Fuller dead?” asked Kyle. “Hey, those cookies taste as good as they smell?”

“Too bad you’ll never know.”

Rafe glared at Kyle.

“Annie, we understand you rescued a young man today who was attacked at the Yogi Meditation Shrine,” Kyle said. “His name’s Franco Fennedy.”

“Right. I already talked to the officers on scene about that. But I was freaked out and didn’t catch his full name,” she answered. Just managed Franco’s address, the identity of his biological parents, and the nasty 8 X 10 photos previously hidden in his desk drawer, that now sat in her kitchen hidden in the pile of bills.

Kyle picked up a fuzzy cat toy shaped like a mouse under a couch cushion. He held it gingerly with his left hand and eyed it for anything incriminating. “Did you know, Annie, that Franco Fennedy listed Clarissa Driver as his emergency contact person?”

“I’d know that, how?”

Kyle frowned and pulled out a pocketknife from his pocket. He held it to the cat toy, ready to gut it and search for drugs.

Teddy raced across the room, power leaped, grabbed the toy and bumped Kyle’s hand. He landed on the floor and bolted with the toy in his mouth. “Shit!” Kyle screamed and dropped his knife.

Annie watched Teddy wriggle under the sofa. Saw Kyle reach for his gun. She vaulted from her kitchen, dove and landed on the floor in front of the sofa.

Kyle drew his gun and aimed it at Teddy. Unfortunately, through Annie’s chest.

Rafe’s eyes widened. “Kyle. Put the gun down.”

“Crazy insane fleabag,” Kyle said. “I probably have tetanus or rabies or worms. God, I hate animals.”

“Put the gun down. Let me look at your hand,” Rafe said. “You know I’m an EMT. Paramedic training.”

“No, I’ll shoot that giant fuzzball. They can test it for diseases when it’s autopsied at the lab.”

“No!” Annie hollered. Kyle held his gun on Annie, who held her hand under the couch preventing Teddy from fleeing and getting shot.

Her next-door neighbor knocked on the wall again. “Lady, for the love of God. First the Madonna tribute. Turn down the Law & Order episode, please?”

“Just let me see your hand, buddy,” Rafe said.

Detective Kyle Pardue held out his trembling left hand.

Rafe held and examined it. Palm up. Palm down. Fingers spread. He performed range of motion on all the joints. Everything moved normally. “Upon inspection, I see no bite or claw marks, no punctures or blood. All your joints appear to have full range of motion. Close call, Detective. Put a little ice on that hand tonight in case you strained something. You’re good to go.”

Kyle slowly lowered his gun.

Annie grabbed Teddy by the scruff of his neck, dragged him out from under the couch and ran off with him in her arms. “Theodore, how many times have we had this discussion? Don’t play with creepy strangers,” she said, threw him into the bathroom and slammed the door. “I’ll get the butter cookies, guys. I mean, Detectives. Then you can fill me in on why you’re really here.”

Detective Kyle Pardue paused at Annie’s front door carrying a goodie bag filled with butter cookies, a few brownies and some porn DVDs that Cyndi Saffron had given Julia, who left them behind in her hasty departure.

“So nice to see you again, Detective Pardue. My apologies for the cat drama.”

Kyle mumbled something and munched a butter cookie. He turned back and looked at Rafe, who sat on Annie’s couch. “I expect a full update tomorrow,” Kyle said.

“Yeah. And I want a complete synopsis of those DVDs.”

Kyle turned and left.

Annie released Teddy from his bathroom prison. He wandered into the living room, tail twitching.

Rafe chuckled. “I can’t believe you threw yourself on the floor in front of your couch to protect your cat.”

“Teddy’s sweet and makes me laugh every day. Laughter is healing. Sorry. But I have to take a quick shower before I discover toads on my body parts. I was in some fairly deep shit I mean water today.”

“I’ll start a fire outside,” he said.

Annie wore fresh sweats, and toweled off her hair next to the fire pit. She cracked open a Corona and took a long sip.

“Sorry about Detective Pardue,” Rafe said.

“He’s creepy.”

“That’s a universal opinion. I think you already know the connection between Franco Fennedy and Dr. Fuller. Now’s the time to tell me.”

Derrick looked at Annie. “I don’t know. Rafe seems like a good cop,” Derrick said. “But maybe we should wait until we talk to Lewis, my attorney. Your call. Don’t forget, the cops still think you’re a suspect in my demise.”

“My call,” Annie said.

Rafe looked confused. “No, not your call. Besides, after tonight’s near gunshot incident, I could make the LAPD look really stupid and beat it out of you.”

She giggled. Probably from too much adrenaline after saving her cat from Detective Pervy-Dude. “No way. You’d have to deal with the subsequent investigation.”

“My pleasure,” Rafe said, as a corner of his mouth turned up.

He didn’t realize he was sexy, Annie thought. “Wishful thinking,” she said.

“Maybe on your part,” he said and took her hand. “Your secrets are making you tired. Why don’t you just tell me?”

Her hand sizzled under his touch. Damn this man had great hands and a strong grip. She looked up at him. She was on the edge; almost ready to spill her secrets; Derrick, Franco, how often she waxed her eyebrows, whatever.

It seemed completely natural that Rafe pulled her to him with his strong hand, put his other hand on the back of her head, dragged his fingers firmly but slowly through her hair, and kissed her insistently on her lips. She resisted at first, damn Mike and his possibly incriminating cheating photos, but her mouth yielded to Rafe’s persistent invitation to let go, unwind, and simply, be. He trailed his fingers down her neck, slipped underneath her sweatshirt, tugged on the fabric of her little yoga top, and…

Oh God, it had been so long.

She opened her eyes and looked into Rafe’s. She still gripped his hand. Gripped it so tight that his hand was white.

Oh shit, she imagined everything but the handshake. Or was it another empathic hit. She pulled away from him, and shook her hands to feel grounded, not all ethereal, not empathic, just normal. Please God, she just wanted to feel normal.

Rafe smiled at her.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Annie said.

“Doubtful.  But, I will discover all your secrets. Why don’t you just be honest with me?” he asked and took her hand again.

Jeez he was so flippin’ hot. And she was so flippin’ undecided if she was married, or not. “Give me forty-eight hours,” she said and pulled her hand away. It felt like it was smack on top of a Weber grill fired up for a July 4th BBQ.

“Give me something now and I’ll float you forty-eight,” he countered.

She thought and sighed. What the hell. If Rafe incorrectly nailed her for Fuller’s murder, he’d most likely visit her in prison. “Okay. Knock yourself out, Detective.”

“I’m knocking.”

“Franco Fennedy is Dr. Derrick Fuller’s biological son.”

Rafe’s eyes widened. “No shit. That would provide some motives.”

“Yeah there.”

“Call me if you need to share more secrets. You’ve got your forty-eight. After that, you’re mine,” Rafe said.

Paint peeled off the walls of a tiny bathroom. A dingy metal medicine cabinet with tinges of rust hung above the sink. The caulking around a frosty glassed in shower sported cracks and black moldy patches. The shower’s sliding glass doors were opened about six inches and revealed a tub growing soap scum. The sink’s turquoise Formica countertop featured indisputable signs of its 1970s origin - little faded gold starbursts. A syringe filled with a thick injectable liquid lay on the countertop.

The Observer pulled down basic cotton underwear and exposed a small amount of flesh in the buttock area. Reached for the syringe with a medically gloved hand. Flipped the rubber top from the needle, twisted and plunged the vial’s needle into the butt cheek. The hand that held the needle shook ever so slightly in its hygienic glove. But the Observer knew it had to be done. Everything up to this moment had to be done.

Baby Blues

Description: Fresh organic Michigan blueberries covered with a dollop of homemade sweet whipped cream.

Appropriate Occasions: Getting dirty.

Best Served With: Practical decisions. The joys of parenting.

NINETEEN

Stoneycliff Cheesy Cakes

Annie looked around the inside of the back of an older limo. Julia, Grady and herself sat on ancient leather seats with cracks that resembled earthquake faults ready to give. They pooled their spare change jars and hired the discount limo service to chauffer them to Lewis Schuchiani’s promotion party at the law offices of Strunckle, Carbunkle and Goldstein. Because after all, Annie and Grady were European royalty.

The chauffer drove them down Wilshire Boulevard Corridor. They passed fancy high-rises, mid-rises, and trendy hotels that made up this neck of L.A. that segued into Beverly Hills.

Annie adjusted her wig. It was a chic coiffed bob that had approximately twenty-five pieces of tape and paperclips hidden under the thick natural silver Asian hair on top. Her facial and neck skin was pulled and taped high up onto her head under her wig. The tape created a nipped/tucked appearance on Annie’s face and neck. The paper clips that connected her taped skin ensured the whole ensemble didn’t crash down during a dramatic emotional moment, like an argument, or if the Chicago Cubs won the World Series. Her eyebrows arched in a perpetually surprised look, but not from Bo-tox. The paperclips were a natural and immediately reversible solution. Her skin was luminous in a half a jar of foundation spatula-ed on, kind of way. Her eyelids slanted upwards towards her now elfin-shaped ears.

“I feel that there’s a paperclip seriously close to my impaling my brain’s Broca’s area…” Annie pointed to her head. “Which has to do with the speech center,” she said and shoved a finger under her wig.

Julia slapped Annie’s hand away. “Stop fidgeting. I’m an artiste. I require room to do my best work,” she said and dabbed more Kabuki white foundation to Annie’s face. Julia was dressed in a simple black pants suit. It made her look sexy and official like the female equivalent of Clint Eastwood when he acted the role of a secret service agent, or Kevin Costner when he played The Bodyguard for poor, stalked Whitney Houston.

Annie correctly surmised that Julia was still pissed that Grady got to play Duke Stoneycliff, a bigger and juicier role, while Julia got cast as the royal couple’s bodyguard. Julia’s enthusiasm did shoot up when she insisted she dress the part and, (shocker), had to shop on the 3rd Street Promenade for a new outfit. (Please, how many black pantsuits already sat in Julia’s closet? She just wanted more play dates with Terence, the security guard at Bob’s Bookstore.)

Annie blinked and tugged on her fake, fat mascara-encrusted eyelashes that obscured her vision by about ninety percent. “Congrats on banging the hot guard, again. Still jealous Grady gets to be the duke?”

Julia slapped her hand away, again. “Oh thanks. I’ve been nailing him for weeks now. Besides I could never look like a man. Therefore, Grady had to be the duke,” she said and leaned into Annie wielding blood red lipstick. “You are my work in progress. I got an award in high school for this, you know.”

“I know. It was called a D in Geometry.”

“Poof your lips,” Julia said. Annie poofed and Julia applied the red stain to her lips. “Besides, everybody gets at least one D in Geometry.”

“Tha was da turd tam u tuk it.”

“I feel a presence,” Grady said and checked out his fake silver goatee with a small hand held mirror. The Elmer’s glue under his fake goatee seemed to be dry. His wig was also Asian silver, but he didn’t need the tape or the paperclips because older men were allowed to have some wrinkles. Julia had drawn shadows on his face with makeup and created some liver spots to make him look older. “I’m a little queasy,’ Grady said. “Is Derrick here?”

“No. Ees al eddy air. U ate una alad for unch. No ukin, pees. Ony av enuv money fo ip,” Annie squirmed away from Julia and her makeup kit. “Enough!”

Julia grabbed the mirror from Grady. “Hey!” he said.

“Check it out,” Julia said and held up the hand-mirror to Annie’s face.

Annie looked in the mirror. She looked like an upper-class doyenne, thirty plus years older than she actually was, who had some work done. And work when it was very expensive - but not all that natural looking. But right now, Annie was an exotic, albeit caught-in-a-wind-tunnel, senior doppelganger. “Wow! Good job on that D.”

Julia preened. “Brigadoon, junior year. A pity you couldn’t be there. Were you at choir practice or the New Testament study group?”

“The New Testaments had the best weed in all of southern Wisconsin,” Annie said.

“Julia’s jealous,” Grady said. “It’s her pattern. Probably childhood emotional trauma. Maybe toilet training took too long.”

Julia punched him on his arm.

“Ow!” Grady exclaimed. “Can I have my mirror back?”

Annie handed it to him as the limo pulled into the driveway in front of the high-rise glass building that housed the law offices of Strunckle, Carbunkle and Goldstein.

They exited the limo and hobbled with age appropriate arthritic knees, stiff backs and necks towards the shiny reflective high-rise. Annie wore a vintage pastel Chanel knock-off suit and a little box hat with netting on top of her wig. Julia trotted energetically behind them, ready to fend off the paparazzi or rabid fans. There were none to be found. They hadn’t enough money to hire fake fans.

Annie took in the small law conference room. It featured a sleek wood table with twelve modern chairs. Adjacent to the wall was a buffet table filled with upscale snacks, bottles of champagne, and a “Congratulations Lewis!” decorated flat sheet cake. Most of the twenty people in the crowd gathered to celebrate Lewis Schuchiani’s promotion to Junior Partner were co-workers. His fiancée, Hailey Strunkle, was dressed cool with some Italian boots, a mini skirt and Tibetan prayer beads around her neck and wrists as fashion accessories. Hailey was the boss’s daughter, a smart girl, educated at Bennington. She greeted everyone by name as they entered the room, and commented on something positive about each guest. Hailey was nuts about Lewis Schuchiani and, for her, today’s event was as important as the preparations for Princess Di’s nuptials.

When the Duke and Duchess Stoneycliff entered the conference room, Hailey greeted them with a flawless “I’m meeting royals” curtsey. She even acknowledged their bodyguard by nodding at her. Perfect manners for a perfect wife to be. Some day, her man, Lewis, would be a partner in the firm.

“An honor to meet you, Duke and Duchess Stoneycliff. I’ve heard so much about you,” she said, even though her Google search had taken her to many “Stoneycliff Farms” sites. None of them featured royalty, or were all that informative, but you can’t always trust the Internet.

Grady turned and stared at the buffet table. “My innards are jumping wildly with anticipation at yonder table. Cheerio,” he said as he wandered towards the buffet, closely followed by Julia.

Hailey’s eyes widened. Annie took her hand and felt Hailey’s fear of the dreaded social faux pax. “Dear Hailey, you’re almost family!” Annie said. She couldn’t move her eyebrows and the makeup melted into her eyes. She blinked and whispered, “Ignore the Duke’s dreadful  manners. His tummy’s not right. It rumbles at odd times and I have to explain the gurgles and the quiet emanations of a gaseous nature. Despite popular opinion, dear Hailey, it’s not easy being a royal.”

Annie put her hand to her face and attempted a look of sorrow, in order to push back paper clips that sneaked down her forehead from beneath her wig. “I’ve had nightmares that the duke’s become lactose intolerant. Cheer me up. Where’s my dear Lewis, the man of the hour?”

Hailey looked around the room. “Lewis’s mom, Roberta, arrived out of the blue. She said she had a showing for her new line and couldn’t make it, but, change of schedule and here she is. I think they’re catching up. Probably in his office, 2204.”

Annie looked over at the buffet table. The duke and their bodyguard threw back the champagne and appetizers as they chatted up Strunkle employees.

A handsome young lawyer in a conservative suit eyed the duke, and slipped him his card. Interesting.

“Darling Hailey, my blood sugar’s plummeting. Let’s partake of some snackies,” Annie said.

“Absolutely,” Hailey said. They walked towards the food table and Annie picked up several mini-quiches, put them on her paper plate and bit into one.

She watched Grady blush under and around his fake facial hair. “Thank you, fine sir. But I don’t currently need representation.”

The handsome lawyer leaned into Grady and whispered, “Yeah, but you might want to share a beer and some Mexican food when you take off that ridiculous disguise. Are you an actor or a writer?”

“Oh,” Annie said. Very nice that Grady was getting some action. He tended to be a hermit when he worked on a writing project. Bummer that she’d have to deal with Lewis’s mother. Roberta Lilly Schuchiani was a fashion designer famous for her funky prints on her clothing and accessories, as well as her take-no-bullshit attitude. But Annie wasn’t here for her sanity (completely gone), and her facelift wouldn’t last much longer. (She estimated an hour, tops.)  She patted her purse. “I have a giftie for dear Lewis and it won’t keep forever,” she said to Hailey.

Annie/Duchess Myra Stoneycliff stuck her platinum head into Lewis Schuchiani’s office. She saw a perfunctory desk, a file cabinet, a bookcase, and a framed law degree from a more than decent university on the wall. But no Lewis and no Lewis’s fashionista mother, Roberta.

Annie took a seat in his office chair. Swiveled back and forth and surveyed the room. His desk was neat and tidy and featured pictures of Roberta, Hailey, and a man who resembled Lewis, who she assumed was his dad. A four-tiered metal file cabinet stood in a corner. She flipped through some files on his desk and found a white 8 X 10 envelope addressed to Lewis, no return address.

Oh, shit. She picked up the envelope, opened it, and pulled out its contents: an 8 X 10 glossy showed Roberta, about thirty years younger, making out with, shocker, Derrick Fuller. A second photo showed Derrick making out with a guy who looked suspiciously like Lewis’s dad. Huh.

Derrick stood next to the file cabinet and tapped his foot. “Did you check the file cabinet for my will?”

“Where have you been?” Annie asked. She walked two feet to the file cabinet and opened the second drawer.

“Catching up on old times.”

She looked under the file header labeled F. “Is there anyone you haven’t messed with?”

“Yes. You.”

“I beg to differ,” she said and pulled out a file labeled, “Fuller, Derrick.” Opened it – nothing there.

When a sultry voice came from the office doorway. “My, my, Duchess. It’s been so long, I don’t even remember meeting you.”

Annie turned and saw Lewis’s famous mother and clothes designer, Roberta Lilly Scuchiani. Roberta leaned against the doorframe clad in one of her new retro Age of Aquarius-inspired print wrap dresses. She was tall, about five feet ten inches without heels, and in bitchin’ shape for being in her sixties. Her hair was styled and her boney clavicles peeked out from her expensive silk scarf draped around her neck.

Annie shoved another wandering paperclip back under her wig. Time to punt. “Dahling Roberta, it’s been forever. I have a surprise for Lewis. A Stoneycliff Cheesy Cake,” Annie said, walked back to Lewis’s desk, pulled a saran wrapped mini-cheesecake out of her purse and placed it next to his family photo montage.

Roberta picked up the cheesecake and examined it. “I thought you spent all your time dating wealthy men with one foot in the grave. When did you diverge into pastries?”

“Well, you haven’t met my duke,” Annie said. Maybe she should skip the punt, play it dangerous and go for the first down on the fourth. “Roberta as stunning as you are, if you had an ounce of brain cells that still fired after our copious late nights at Studio 54, you would remember I always baked confections. And shared them with my friends. You were my test subjects for perfecting my future bakery.”

“Right.” Roberta eyed Annie suspiciously. “Nice brow lift, I mean forehead,” she said. “New York or L.A.?”

More like Staples, thought Annie. “Zurich.”

Roberta’s eyes narrowed. “Decent work on your neck job,” she said.

“I haven’t a clue as to what you’re talking about,” Annie said, patted her neck and covered tape with strands from her wig.

“Oh please, my dearest, oldest friend. Who’s your fabulous doctor? In case my neck needs work some day,” Roberta said.

Annie rolled her eyes. “Love you, Robbie, but your neck is not your best physical attribute.”

Roberta frowned and adjusted the scarf that decorated her long neck. “Oh, be an angel, and share the name of your plastic surgeon. Doctor, who?”

“Dr. Feffenhorfer of the famed Feffenhorfer Clinic.”

“I’ve never heard of him or the clinic.”

“That’s because they’re very exclusive and require a prominent referral,” Annie said. Two could play at this game. “Don’t be shy, Darling. Feel free to drop my name.” Drop it into a giant vat of pudding for all the good it would do her.

“What did we do, besides Studio 54?” Roberta squinted at her.

Annie squinted back. There was something slightly off about Roberta. “Oh what didn’t we do, Robbie! Those were the days, my friend,” Annie replied. She thought hard, ground her teeth and more pieces of tape popped. Her right ear dropped half an inch. Her ears were now asymmetrical. “We thought they’d never end.”

“We’d sing and dance forever and a day?” Roberta pointed to Annie’s right ear. “Did your ear just have a stroke?”

“Face yoga, it’s all the rage. Learned it from a Swami on va-ca in Gstaad,” Annie said and glanced at the family pics on Lewis’s desk. Looked back up at Roberta. Something clicked. “Where’s Lewis?”

“We chatted. He just left to go to his party.”

“No. I would have passed him in the hallway.” Annie picked up the white envelope and waved it in front of Roberta’s face. “Did he show you this?”

“No.”

Annie pulled out the photos of Derrick with Roberta and, Derrick with Lewis’s dad. “How about these?” she asked.

Roberta leaned in, held the photo on one end while Annie held its other end. Roberta did a double take and shook her head. “Oh, my God. I still can’t believe Derrick’s dead.”

Annie felt something shift inside her body, and closed her eyes to concentrate. On her left side, she craved mani-pedis, chocolate, great communication skills, a fab purse, a hot new romantic-suspense novel, re-runs of Sex and the City, and Home Depot. On the right side of her body, Annie lusted after Hooters, White Castle sliders, Playboy, internet porn, a universal remote control, sports playoffs, more internet porn, and Home Depot. The feelings were overwhelming, confusing, and like a three car whiplash, slammed her brain back and forth, and back again.

“Roberta, stop dicking around and tell me about this photo.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.” Roberta dropped her end of the photo. “I don’t even remember who you are!” She said and tossed her scarf over her shoulder.

Hailey popped her head in the doorway. “I’m sorry. I know this is completely the wrong time to interrupt your reunion. But everyone’s looking for Lewis?  And even I can’t find him and it’s freaking me out!”

A big piece of this puzzle clunked together for Annie. Lewis was being blackmailed. “Hailey, was Lewis happy about his promotion?” Annie asked.

“He was thrilled. Until a couple of days after his client, Derrick Fuller died. He’s been depressed ever since. I keep telling him that Derrick’s passing is tragic, but he’ll get over it. Lewis doesn’t answer me. Doesn’t even see me.”

“Damn,” Annie said. “How do we get to the roof?”

Annie, Derrick, Hillary, and Roberta Schuchiani burst through the door that led from the stairwell to the roof of this Beverly Hills twenty-five-story building. Between the air ducts, AC equipment, other pipes and tubes and equipment, there was a decent view of West Los Angeles and the Pacific Ocean.

Hailey screamed, “Lewis! Are you here?” There was no answer.

Annie said, “We spread out. Check the entire roof. Go!”

The three women ran in different directions.

Derrick stared at his toes. “Do you think I need a pedicure?”

“I don’t see Lewis!” Hailey yelled.

Annie searched the west end the high-rise. No signs of human life. “He’s not here,” she said.

“I can’t find my baby!” Roberta said.

“One. Lewis is a lawyer. Two. Someone’s blackmailing him with disturbing photos,” Derrick said. “Check the copy room. Plenty of shredders in the copy room.”

“Hailey! Where’s the copy room?” Annie asked.

The law firm’s copy room was small and packed with industrial sized copiers and shredders. Lewis Schuchiani shoved some papers into a shredder, clutched some papers and wiped away a few tears.

“Lewis! What are you doing?” Hailey said and walked towards him.

Lewis stuck out his hand to stop her approach. “I can’t hurt you, Hailey.”

She looked confused, but stopped.

Roberta put her hand over her chest. “Lewis, baby. Come to Mommy.”

“I can’t hurt Hailey, Mom. I won’t live with that,” Lewis said. He lifted his hand to hit the shred button.

“That better not be my new will,” Derrick said. “You’re my personal assistant, Annie. Time to ramp it up a notch. By the way, your wig’s askew and your hat makes you look like someone who forgot personal appearances are everything.”

Annie frowned. “Lewis,” she asked. “Who’s the primary beneficiary in Derrick Fuller’s new will?”

Lewis clutched papers to his chest. “I don’t know.”

“That’s a lie, Lewis. You’ve read Dr. Fuller’s new will. You know the primary beneficiary is Franco Fennedy.”

“I don’t know anything, anymore,” Lewis said, as he pushed the button and began shredding a Fuller document.
“I really hope that wasn’t my new will,” Derrick said.

“You have copies, right?” Annie asked and coughed into her sleeve.

“No,” Derrick said and looked bummed.

“Lewis Schuchiani. There are multiple copies of Dr. Derrick Fuller’s will,” Annie said. “However, Mr. Schuchiani, if you shred Derrick Fuller’s new last will and testament, you are in violation of the lawyer’s code of ethics’ number...” Oh God, she thought, what would sound like an official number? “You, Lewis Schuchiani, are in violation of ethics’ number second-in-15-penalty-flag-on-the-play.”

Lewis hesitated and looked confused. “That wasn’t Dr. Fuller’s will. It was just a mean, spiteful picture,” he said. Stared at Roberta. “I’m doing this for you too, Mom.”

Roberta fidgeted with her scarf. “Stop it, son. I won’t allow you to ruin your career. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

“I can’t risk either of you being hurt.” Lewis shoved more papers into the shredder.

“Stop him!” Derrick yelled. “Protect Franco!”

“Lewis! Just say no!” Annie said.

“I can’t!” Lewis said.

Annie tackled Lewis. They fell to the floor between the shredders and copiers and fought over the papers he clutched to his chest. Lewis grabbed Annie’s hair. Paperclips torqued, tape snapped and her wig ripped off her head. She screamed. (Those clips were sharp and a few cut into her head and face. Also, ripping tape off one’s face, neck and hair, really hurt. And total bummer about that new nickel-sized bald patch on her scalp.)

Hailey threw herself onto Lewis and rolled him away from Annie. She cradled Lewis, kissed his check and all the fight went out of him.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Lewis apologized.

“I love you, son,” Roberta said. She sat on the floor next to them, ran her fingers through his hair and looked at Annie.

Annie’s wig lay on the floor, her eyebrows had dropped, her chin sank, her ears evened out. She now looked like a woman in her thirties, wearing too much makeup, as well as office supplies.

“I knew it! You’re an imposter!” Roberta said, picked the wig up off the floor and examined it. “Good God, where did you get this fabulous Asian hair?”

“You’re right, I’m not the duchess. Who cares? We saved your son’s career.” Annie flipped through the documents and photos she wrestled from Lewis. Found Derrick’s new will. His old will. Really looked at the photos and realized why, Lewis was being blackmailed. “I am authorized to investigate Dr. Derrick Fuller’s death,” Annie said. “Lewis is Fuller’s attorney and has direct access to his wills. Someone was blackmailing Lewis.”

“Why Lewis?” Hailey asked.

Annie shared a conspiratorial look with Roberta, aka Robbie. They were both strong and proud. Annie wanted to give Roberta, her worthy adversary, a way to maintain her dignity. The two women nodded to each other, warrior to warrior.

Roberta put her hand on Hailey’s arm. “Because, my darling future daughter in-law. Before I was Lewis’s mother, I was Lewis’s father.”

“Huh?” Hailey said, confused.

Roberta unwrapped her scarf. She’d already had some work done – a shaving of the prominent cartilage in the front of the neck that most men had, and women didn’t. Most women didn’t have the super low body fat percentage and distinctive clavicles that Robbie boasted. “Sweetie. Someone tried to blackmail Lewis because they knew that I, his mother, a celebrity fashion designer, had a sex-change operation.”

Hailey shook her head, confused. “Lewis?”

“Whoever sent me the photos threatened to leak them to the press. I thought you wouldn’t want me anymore. That you, your family and the firm would be embarrassed,” Lewis said.

“You’re the only one who has ever understood me, Lewis. I thought your mom worked out a lot and had a little lipo,” Hailey said.

Lewis kissed Hailey on the lips, turned and regarded Roberta, earnest. “What if the blackmailer goes to the press, mom? Can your business, can the fashion industry handle the scandal?”

Roberta tried to re-drape her scarf around her neck. Her hands shook. “Don’t worry honey…”

“Let me help.” Annie faced Robbie and futzed with her scarf until it draped perfectly down Robbie’s surgically enhanced cleavage. “You did the right thing. Job well done, Mom.”

Roberta finally exhaled.

Annie thought before she spoke. “Lewis, your mom’s a legend. Her talent transcends gender. As to the fashion industry? The headlines will run something like… ‘Robert was a delicate boy who knew fabric. But deep in his psyche, something wasn’t right. So, Robert became Roberta, a stunning girl who knew how to cut, drape and fold.’ The demand and prices for your mom’s clothing lines will skyrocket.”

Roberta put her hand to her face and wiped a tear away. “I owe you.”

Annie replied, “The silver wig was procured through a woman named Yang at Thai Massage Spa at Vermont and Beverly. If your story comes out, Roberta, trust me, there will be multiple offers for a TV movie of the week. Call me, I know a decent screenwriter. I’d love one of those wrap dresses some day. Those things make everyone look good.”

Back in Annie’s living room, the clock read 5 p.m. Still wearing her deli beekeeper outfit, she examined the photos of Mike and Derrick laid out on her apartment floor. Below the Mike photos were the pics donated by Sienna Saffron, the photos collected from Franco Fennedy’s apartment and the still intact glossies from Lewis Schuchiani. All showed people in compromising, embarrassing situations with Derrick.

“Come on!” Derrick said as he jogged in place, his silver thong package jiggled inches from her face.

She gagged and waved him away. “I’m reviewing evidence. The silver thong can only be tolerated for so long, Derrick. You need to find a way to cover up or I quit.”

“People loved my ass,” Derrick said.

“Enough to shoot it and subsequently kill you,” Annie said.

“My point, exactly. Someone blackmailed Lewis to hide my new will, for a reason.”

“I’m blinded by your twenty-five watt bulb. Share,” Annie said.

“My old will gave fifty percent of all my worldly possessions to Tawny, and fifty percent to other greedy types. My new will gives fifty percent of my estate to my dear son Franco, twenty-five percent to Tawny and the rest divided between assorted hustlers and charities.”

“You didn’t have time to file a newer will before, you decided to divorce Tawny?”

“I was prepping my new book, doing line re-writes, and fine-tuning marketing strategies. Besides keeping up with my private clientele, I spent my remaining time on my personal spiritual, emotional and physical upkeep. I was exhausted, babe. You’re the one slacking. Call another suspect.”

“Fine. Tawny,” Annie said, grabbed the phone and dialed. A voicemail picked up. “Greetings in the name of the most righteous, sacred and beloved.” Annie stared at her phone. Maybe she dialed the wrong number. She hung up, looked at the number and dialed it again. “Greetings in the name of…” Okay. “You’ve reached the Church of the Reverend Tawny ‘Sunshine’ Fuller. I’m most likely baptizing a lonely, searching baby soul or reaching out to another of God’s creatures in need. So call my spiritual assistant, Madison Morgan at 310/555-LIVE. Today’s Word? Puppies!”

Annie hung up, dialed the other number and left a message. “Mr. Morgan, this is Crystal Light from Towering Cathedral Publications. We had an unexpected cancellation, thank you Higher Power, that provided a fortunate opening in our roster. Our board convened and we are inspired to interview the Reverend Tawny ‘Sunshine’ Fuller for our upcoming ‘Transform Your Life’, issue. We’re thinking about giving Reverend Tawny the magazine cover. So we all here at Towering Cathedral Publications pray that you call me back at 310/555-8181. Thank you...”

She was about to hang up, when a male voice came on the line. “Hello? Ms. Light?” Annie put the phone back to her ear. “Blessings, yes?”

Derrick jumped up and down, excited. Annie swatted him like a gnat. He leaned into her ear to catch the conversation.

“I’m Brother Madison Morgan; Reverend Tawny Fuller’s spiritual advisor. What kind of time frame are we talking about for the cover?”

“I’d need the interview almost immediately. Our photographer could do the photos wherever and whenever the Reverend would like, within the next week.”

“Oh,” Madison said, “Hold, please.”

Christian rock played on the phone muzak. Annie snapped her fingers at Derrick. “I’m getting a headache from your dead vibes. Back off.”

“Is someone hypoglycemic? Does someone need a sugar fix?” He pouted, but stepped away.

Shit. What if Madison didn’t believe her? She was a baker, not an actor. Her hands quivered as she waited for his answer. The Christian rock stopped, thank God, ’cause if she heard the words “lifted up” one more time, she’d either have to buy a new bra or kick her phone to the curb.

Madison got back on the line. “I’m looking at Reverend Tawny’s very busy schedule. Good news, I found an opening. The Reverend is attending a rejuvenating seminar at Inhale Spa in Santa Monica tomorrow. She can meet you in the lobby at 6:30 p.m. The Reverend’s a big fan of your magazine and honored to be on the cover.”

“Amen, Brother Madison! Reverend Tawny Fuller will be resplendent on our magazine’s cover. Thank you!” Annie said, jazzed that Tawny was a fan of her non-existent magazine.

“Thank you, Ms. Crystal Light. Blessings,” Madison Morgan said and hung up the phone.

Annie hung up and washed her hands in the kitchen sink. Twice. Spritzed some Lysol on a paper towel and wiped down her phone and answering machine. “Hey Derrick. Do you think whoever offed you is going to take a pass at me?”

Derrick looked at his feet. “Maybe.”

That word took the anger and the wind out of both of them. “If I end up sunny side dead, with my neck twisted or my head bashed in like I slipped and wiped out on a cat hairball, will you promise me, that you’ll help find who killed me?” Annie looked Derrick square in the eyes.

He took her hand and she didn’t pull away. Surprisingly, she didn’t feel skivvy, like she’d been injected with dirty needles or contacted flesh-eating bacteria and needed to take massive antibiotics.

Derrick held Annie’s hand. “Yes, Annie Rose Graceland. No matter what happens to you, now, in five years, ten, fifty, no matter where I land, I’ll be there for you. My karma in this lifetime was to stop offering false promises. Only promise what I truly believe I can do. I’ll do that for you, Annie.”

“Oh,” she said. Thought that was one of the nicest things someone ever said to her. A few tears welled in her eyes. “Thank you.”

She looked down at the pictures laid out like tile samples on her floor – Derrick, Mike, Sienna, Franco, Robbie and Robert Schuchiani. Something wasn’t right. Something was altered, Photoshopped, faked, whatever. She knew it in her bones, but she still couldn’t put her finger on it. Damn! Her phone rang and she let her answering machine pick up. Mike’s voice played through and he sounded plaintive, a teensy bit whiny, but appealed to her overwhelming desire to help, make everything right. Yes, she needed to join a Twelve Step Program for Co-Dependency.

“Annie. It’s Mike. I miss you. I know it’s spur of the moment but I’m not just asking. I’m appealing to your desire to help the little people. Like me. Hah! I’ve got a big audition tonight at, well, it’s actually an A-list fund-raiser in Bel-Air. 1225 Copa Del Oro Drive. 7:30 p.m. Cocktail attire. Our names are on the list. You’re my rock. I need your support. If I can just see you and be by your side, I can pass this test. I can be the man you need me to be. Please meet me, Annie. We’ll talk afterwards. If I don’t hear from you, I’m going to assume we’re on, eh?”

She picked up the phone. “I’ll meet you, Mike.”

“You’re my girl. You’ve always been a good girl. That’s why I married you.”

She hung up the phone. Mike knew her weak spot. She wouldn’t let go of a marriage and a lifetime commitment if they were the targets of a hoax. In a couple of hours she would meet Mike. And, she would do it right.

Stoneycliff Cheesy Cakes

Description: Light as air freshly baked, then cooled, mini cheesecakes in fresh graham cracker crusts. For variety we recommend you add different liquors to spice up your potential cheesecake orgy. Check out Kahlua, Amaretto, Bailey’s, etc. Do not attempt all these liquors in one mini-cheesecake as that would be considered an alcohol-cake. If you were pulled over by Police Officers while driving, you would most likely not pass a Breathalyzer Test.

Appropriate Occasions: Promotion parties. Impersonating royalty. Snooping.

Best Served With: A gift card to Staples, surgical tape, fabulous wrap dresses, a mother’s love and a father’s devotion.

TWENTY

Family Values Fun-Pack

Another glorious sunset was setting on Venice, California, this funky community that hugged the Pacific Ocean. The oranges and reds of the sun played off the blue mist that rose on the ocean’s horizon and crept inland as Annie left her apartment.

She wore a sexy but tasteful black above-the-knee cocktail dress. It had a plunging neckline without being tawdry and she even attempted three inch black strappy heels.

Derrick stood next to her Victory Gardens and eyed her appreciatively. “You look hot, Cupcake. Where are we going?”

“Where I’m going is none of your business. Tonight’s about my marriage. Considering that debacle is the reason I met you, you’re not invited,” she said, turned and walked to her car.

Derrick looked disappointed. “You sure?”

Annie waved bye bye over her shoulder.

The Observer sat in the car parked across the street from Annie’s place and watched her leave. The Observer flipped the driver’s sun visor down. Smudged old rubber bands held a twenty-year-old faded picture of Derrick laughing and smiling. Simpler times. But the Observer knew the plan was in place, and only a few steps remained to ensure simpler times in the future. Their future. She pushed the sun visor closed, and it snapped back in place.

Annie pulled up in her ancient Cabrio at the party address in Bel-Air that Mike had given her. She looked out her window at a gorgeous, immaculate two storied Cape Cod styled mansion. It sat on an enormous lot behind a large fence covered in blooming white trailing roses. This place was big money.

There was a valet parking line that consisted of a few Beamers, some Benzes and shiny hybrids in front of her. Behind her piece-of-shit-classic car were a new hybrid SUV and a limo. The parking line moved quickly and she pulled up to the valet guy and hello, can you say karma, was back in front of…

The event parking organizer. The same guy from Derrick’s memorial service at the Shrine. He was dressed in yet another, cheap sweat stained suit. “Name, please,” he asked and checked his clipboard.

“Mrs. Piccolino,” Annie said, and turned her head to inspect her makeup in the rearview, aka, re-grouping.

The event organizer reviewed his clipboard. “I don’t see a Mrs. Piccolino.”

Oh God, no. This nightmare could not be happening again.

“Wait!” he exclaimed. “I see a Mrs. Mike Piccolino. That you?” He tried to stare into her car.

She avoided his gaze, leaned over into the passenger seat and stuck her butt up in the air. She opened the glove box and searched for something. Anything. “Yeah there.”

Although Annie was rifling through the glove box, she knew the event organizer was checking out her ass. She leaned further forward and wiggled her butt. (Distract the enemy and buy time.)  Those few seconds gave her enough time to throw on her glasses, grab her Mini-Mag ‘blind-em’ flashlight, a thick 8 X 10 envelope and a scribbled-on legal pad. She swiveled her hips and slid back into the driver’s seat. Placed her heeled feet on the pavement, wriggled her skirt above her knees, bared her legs to low thigh level, and stepped out of her car.

The event organizer’s eyes traveled from Annie’s calves up to her thighs.

Annie pondered a moment. Yes, a woman could be zen and forgive and forget. Poke out my other eye. Cut off my second leg. I’ll still have arms and can learn how to crab-walk. Those women usually had heart attacks at age forty-five. Or, a woman could wait years or lifetimes for an opportunity that offered a smidge of revenge. On the rare occasion retribution was easy, Annie believed it was stupid to ignore the call of karma. She flicked on her Mag flashlight, shone it square into the event organizer’s piggy eyes and semi-blinded him.

He blinked. “Ow, lady.”

“Oops, sorry,” she said and flicked the Mag off.

“You gotta be careful with that thing. You know certain peoples can get migraines from that thing.”

“You’re right.” Annie shined the Mag into his eyes again. Flicked it off. Turned it on.

The event organizer grabbed his head. “Lady!”

“I just don’t have the hang of this thing,” she said. Flicked the Mag on and off. “It’s dark out and I can’t really see.”

Cars queued behind her in line, honked.

He hunched over and covered his eyes with his hands.

“Uh-oh!” On and off with the Mini-Mag light. “I just had Lasix,” Annie said. Grabbed his hand, stuck her keys in his palm, closed his fingers and slammed his hand back into his chest.

“What’s your problem, lady?”

“I don’t have a problem. I’m just a nobody bitch with an invitation who’s blocking your entrance. Be careful with my car. It’s a classic, you know.” She knew he wouldn’t get it, but didn’t care, ’cause she did. She walked into the swanky house and the fancy party with a big smile on her face.

The inside of the entryway and living room looked Cape Cod. The furnishings and linens were Ralph Lauren-like, all classic lines and textiles, but more expensive. Cordial bartenders manned bars set up along the walls. They poured cocktails as well as wine and champagne. Smiling waiters carried trays of hors d’oeuvres and offered them to the many cocktail-attired guests.

The party crowd spilled from the living room through french doors that led to a lit back porch. The outdoor area featured chaise lounges and a gorgeous pool in the background. Twinkly italian lights trailed from the pergola and pillars. Nat King Cole and his daughter crooned honey-throated duets through invisible speakers on the upscale sound system.

A waiter approached Annie. “Chocolate croissantlettes. Family Values brand, of course.”

“Thank you,” she said, took a cocktail napkin and a croissantlette. Munched on it. Not bad.

She spotted Mike. He was across the room talking to a pristine forty-something couple. He worked it; he was “on.” That meant Mike flirted, was animated, funny, clever and smart. The couple bent over in laughter. The guy handed Mike his card. The woman winked at Mike, her manicured hand wrapped around the arm of her affluent husband as they walked off. When Mike was “on,” he was a killer combo. Mc-Happy Meal Mike Piccolino. Maybe not Mc-Happy forever. Annie’s jury was still out.

Another waiter approached Annie. He carried a tray stacked with a large pile of what looked like folded laundry. Huh? “Family Values recyclable grocery bag?” the waiter asked. “Completely organic cotton, farmed and harvested by Native Americans who didn’t get casino rights. The dyes are natural.”

“Absolutely,” Annie said and took one. She looked up and saw Mike talking up an expensively attired coiffed older couple. He waved at her. She waved back. Mike leaned into the older couple and said something. The older couple turned, smiled, and waved at her as well. “Who are they?” Annie asked the waiter.

“The Bauerfelds are hosting this party,” the waiter said. “It’s the launch for their Family Values Eco-Friendly, organic line of diet food.”

“Thanks,” Annie said. She checked out the bag. It had sturdy fabric, decent stitching, could hold some groceries, maybe even baked goods. Yeah there, all good. But why did the image printed in sepia on the bag look so familiar? She read the caption underneath, “Save the Endangered African Bifurcated Turtles.” Her face flushed blood red and she fanned it with the envelope she held.

That was no endangered turtle. The image on the grocery bag was actually a photo of her Shrine pond water-soaked butt. She stared at it, hoping this was a continuation of her bad run of luck, and not her fifteen minutes of fame.

She decided, (once again, she was used to this), to wait for Mike to take a break from working the room. She took a seat in a plush chair in front of a coffee table in the corner of the living room. Opened the envelope with the collection of Derrick’s blackmail photos and flipped through them.

They were a lovely compilation. Perhaps Martha Stewart would turn them into a room tableau, complete with wallpaper, curtains and bed linens featuring primarily naked copulating couples. Whoever took these photos must have been very proud, like a parent snapping too many pics of his newborn.

She flipped through the possible future Derrick Fuller coffee table sex book. Thought an appropriate title would be, “I Promise – I’ll F*** You Up.” The first chapter would be Derrick and her husband Mike in a lustful embrace. Even if it was faked, it was still yuck. No wonder her marriage was on a friggin’ pebble beach spiked with broken glass. She scrutinized the photo and noticed a tiny mark on Mike’s forearm. That had to be their almost identical blue heart-shaped prison tats. She remembered ’cause that was the moment she gave him her heart, agreed to marry him and move to Los Angeles.

Yet, four plus years later, she was between life with Mike and life without him. Her consolation prize was that she was at some stupid cocktail party holding a grocery bag with a picture of her butt on it. Oh, joy.

After the photos of Derrick and Mike came the racy pics of Derrick and Sienna. Poor Sienna, and even worse for her dad, Bill. The next series featured Derrick and Franco Fennedy in hugs and intimate embraces. Thank God, Franco had regained consciousness. Due to his temporary amnesia from his trauma, Franco had no recollection of who pounded on his head. Next were the images of Derrick and Robbie and Robert Schuchiani horizontal, vertical and every angle in between that showed plenty of skin. Thankfully Lewis had come to his senses. Lucky for Lewis that loyal Hailey was his fiancée and Robbie was his loving mother/father combo.

Something in the photo montage caught Annie’s eye. She almost discovered the clue when Mike’s phone call interrupted her back at her apartment, hours earlier. She picked up a photo of Sienna and Derrick. Examined it. And saw a tiny mark visible on the inside of Sienna’s forearm.

It looked like a small blue heart.

Mike grabbed Annie’s hand. “What you looking at, babe?”

“Nothing.” Annie flipped the stack of photos over and stuck them in her legal pad. She felt awkward as he held her hand. Her hand wasn’t sure if it wanted Mike to touch it, let alone hold it. But Annie shared marriage vows with Mike and meant every word she said. Midwestern girls were not quitters. She wasn’t about to be a wuss during tough times.

“Annie,” Mike said and kissed her hand. “You’re here. You know a lot of girls wouldn’t…”

“Wouldn’t show. Yeah there, know the drill.”

“We concentrated on our careers. Let some time slide. If I get this gig, or even if I don’t, we’re totally back on track. I promise you.” Mike leaned in closer. Fiddled with her hair. That used to feel sexy. Now it felt weird. And those dreadful words, “I promise you…” festered in Annie’s ears and burrowed through her brain.

A slick hot couple that resembled Posh and Becks (Gosh, maybe they were Posh and Becks?) waved at Mike from across the room and motioned him over. Mike lit up like he’d spotted a buy one, get one free on Hair Dye for Manly Men at the pharmacy. “Just a couple of minutes, Annie. They’re awesome connections for my career. I’ll be right back.”

“Sure,” she said. “Do you want me to…?”

“Got it covered, babe.” He kissed her quickly on her little heart tat on the inside of her forearm. He strode towards the impossibly beautiful trendy couple. She watched as they hugged him, and air kissed. The Bauerfelds drifted over. Bob Bauerfeld whispered into Mike’s ear. They nodded, smiled and shook hands. Mike’s face lit up like a fat birthday candle. Annie assumed he got the big job.

She looked at her tat that Mike just kissed and frankly, felt sick. She licked her finger and rubbed his kiss off her arm. That damn tat had gotten her in so much trouble.

Something clicked and the last puzzle piece fell into place.

She pulled the stack of photos out from her legal pad and flipped through them, again. Her husband Mike, small heart tattoo on the inside of his forearm in his embrace with Derrick Fuller. Sienna Saffron, small heart-shaped tattoo on the inside of her forearm as she performed you-know-what on Derrick Fuller. Franco Fennedy’s beautiful young face stared up at Derrick while they embraced, with the bus station sign in the background. A small heart-shaped tat visible on Franco’s inner arm. Roberta Scuchiani, her wrap dress half on, half off, kissing Derrick Fuller, her arm around his neck, a small heart-shaped tattoo visible on her inner arm.

Everyone’s photo batch had a pic with the same heart-shaped prison tat on his or her inner arm. When you’re from Wisconsin, if it walks like a deer, smells like a deer and it’s hunting season, then you’ve got a zealous hunter in camouflage splashed with a little dear urine peering through a shotgun scope aimed at Bambi’s father.

Annie looked at her tat, looked at Mike and her mouth fell open. She’d figured out the puzzle. She knew only three people who had blue-heart prison tats on their inner arms. Those people were she, Mike and Julia. Oh yeah, the pictures were Photo-Shopped. Just not the glossies of Mike and Derrick. The racy photos of Mike and Derrick delivered to her on Valentine’s Day  were the real deal. She was the ruse. She had always been the ruse.

She grabbed the photos, stuffed them into her new recyclable bag and pushed herself off the comfy chair.

Mike looked back at Annie, smiled and gave her thumbs up.

She responded with the universal sign for slashing one’s throat with one’s hand, and strode towards the front door.

Mike said an über-quick goodbye to Posh, Becks and the Bauerfelds. Pushed his way firmly but politely through the crowd towards Annie and said. “Don’t leave.”

“I’m done,” she said.

“Not now, Annie. I got the job. All our work paid off. Don’t go.”

She turned and looked at Mike Piccolino. So handsome, funny, and charismatic. But still, a loser.

“It was only about my career. That meant taking care of us, our future. Our family,” Mike said. “It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.” He pushed through the crowd towards her.

Annie wriggled around the waiters and guests away from Mike headed towards the mansion’s front door. She saw Derrick standing next to the door, wringing his hands.

“I’m sorry,” Derrick said.

“I know.”

“I hoped it wasn’t true.”

“Me, too.”

Annie remembered her conversation with Dr. Stern, Derrick’s dermatologist. She looked back at Mike. “I want to see your tattoo.”

Mike paused. “Babe. Not now,” he said. “We’ll discuss that in private.”

“I want to see your blue heart tattoo. The one you got before you proposed marriage to me.” She stuck out her stiff upper lip, ’cause the room became icy cold and she felt like she was snowmobiling in minus forty degrees. “I want to see it.”

Mike wouldn’t meet her look. “I said, that’s private.”

“You lasered it off, right? Another way to be more commercial.”

Mike wouldn’t reply.

“I’m not a character in a play or a commercial, Mike,” Annie said. “I’m not perfect. I’m not politically correct. My current version of learning meditation is self-medication. Sometimes I run over, maim or kill things. I loved you, Mike Piccolino and I promised you my heart for a lifetime. But I won’t stay in a relationship where I am lied to, disrespected. My promises to you end now. I. Am. Done.”

“No, you’re not,” Mike said. The Bauerfelds were staring at them, at their new poster boy for family values. He raised his voice. “You’re a good girl, Annie. You’re my wife. You value family, children, healthy food and what’s great for the environment.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Annie said and squeezed out the doorway.

Family Values Fun-Pack

Description: Organic Croissantlettes. Sweet batter baked into a light as air crust filled with dark yummy chocolate.

Appropriate Occasions: Parties that launch a new line of organic and eco-friendly goods. Putting oddly shaped puzzle pieces together. Going the extra mile for your marriage.

Best Served With: Re-useable organic cotton and naturally dyed grocery sacks. An unexpected opportunity for revenge. Discovering one’s truth, and finding the courage to speak it.

TWENTY ONE

Killer Devil’s Food Cupcakes

It was daylight in Annie’s apartment. She lay on her couch, eased Teddy off her head and placed him on the floor. She’d survived her first official night of being single, again. Jeez, was she turning into Liz Taylor? But how to get rid of Derrick, who now leaned his face and entire front of his body against the outside of her living room window, and in a pathetic gesture, cried, ground his hips against her window and knocked?

“Let me in. I’m sorry. Please, let me in,” he whined and drooled a little.

“No. Bad ghosts who slept with one’s soon-to-be-ex-husband stay outside. Go away.”

She grabbed Detective Raphael’s card from her kitchen counter, picked up her phone and dialed. And he picked up.
“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” he said.

“You said I could call you if I need to talk.”

“I’ll be over in forty-five.”

Annie and Rafe walked past scores of sail and motorboats anchored in the slips in Marina Del Rey, California. Blue skies shone over ocean water that lapped against the boats anchored to the docks. They watched the seagulls compete with each other for the occasional tossed hot dog bun or a sliver of a fish in the marina waters. It was a stunningly beautiful beach afternoon.

Detective Rafe looked at Annie in her long black skirt and a yoga top with a Packers sweatshirt draped over her shoulders. “Why do I suddenly have this overwhelming desire to play football?” He asked.

Annie smiled. “Did you read the new will?” She asked.

“Offered by Lewis Schuchiani and duly taken into evidence,” Rafe said.

“I keep thinking it had to be Tawny who killed Derrick, but there’s this part of me that feels it’s someone else.”

Rafe stopped walking and regarded her. “Besides being deleted from the suspect list, why do you care?”

Annie watched Derrick chasing the seagulls. He sprinted towards them and flapped his arms. They ran in front of him. “Take me with you,” he yelled. “I want to fly, freebird,” he sang. When he burst into the guitar riff on the Skynard song the birds freaked and flew off, cawing.

“I can’t tell you that, yet,” Annie said and smiled.

“When can you tell me?”

“Did you, read the new will?”

“Yesterday. Your forty-eight hours are almost up, Duchess Stoneycliff.”

“I have no idea who you’re talking about,” Annie said.

They both smiled.

“I’m getting divorced, you know. For real this time.”

“Detective Pardue will have to drop his pants at the dry cleaner after he hears the news.”

Annie slugged Rafe on his arm and giggled.

Hours later, it was time for the pre-game coverage interview/showdown with Tawny Fuller, Derrick’s ‘grieving spouse’, also Annie’s primo suspect in Derrick Fuller’s murder.

Annie showed up at Inhale Spa at 5:00 p.m. The spa had soft lighting, a large trickling fountain, and lots of zen touches: Buddha statues, Feng-Shui books, Asian symbols on clothing made with bark and silk. It featured a cozy retail section filled with cool pricey yoga clothes, funky expensive jewelry, meditation CDs, DVDs, and natural skin products. Annie was tempted to explore the spa’s retail nirvana, but knew it was more important to pace herself. She needed time to relax, and mentally practice her deceptive, but honesty-provoking interrogation  techniques.

Because she wanted Tawny Fuller to confess to Derrick’s murder. After all, who else could it be? Who else could have blackmailed Lewis Schuchiani into hiding Derrick’s new will? Who else stood to benefit from killing Franco, Derrick’s only son, his flesh and blood? Thank God, Franco was out of the hospital and recuperating in his politically connected mother’s compound. Whoever attempted to kill the hot blondie would now have to get through twenty-five bodyguards and his insanely angry powerful mother in order to try again. Wasn’t going to happen.

Conveniently, Tawny had an alibi for the time that Franco was attacked. She recorded a set of inspirational, upbeat I Promise You sermons for her new congregation at a small studio. A video leaked to YouTube showed Tawny delivering her first sermon, topless. The fun was interrupted when Madison ran into the booth, and threw a blanket on top of her. He lectured Tawny that she might be taken more seriously if she wore robes. She countered that the DVD sermons would sell more if she showed her boobies. Obviously, both parties had valid points.

Four young beautiful waifish greeters manned the spa’s front desk decorated with delicate orchids when Annie checked in. The thinnest girl greeter dressed in something that looked recyclable actually looked at her. “Can I help you?” Thinnest asked in a volume that hovered a decibel over a whisper.

Annie leaned over the counter towards Thinnest in an attempt to be helpful. The poor thing was probably missing a vocal cord. “Hello. My name is… Crystal Light. I’m a reporter for Towering Cathedral Publications and I’m here to meet the Reverend Tawny Fuller at 6:30 p.m. I arrived a little early.”

“Oh yes. Let me check that, Ms. Light,” Thinnest said, punched some buttons on a computer, and pulled up a calendar with notations. “It says here, Ms. Light, you are a special guest of Reverend Fuller and are to receive a pass to the spa’s healing waters.”

Annie’s eyes glazed over. “Oh. My. God.” She had been good, kind and helped Derrick. Been to hell and back with Mike. Her shoulder and neck muscles had turned to concrete when she discovered she was in peri-menopause, thought her husband was a cheat, filed for separation, moved, lost her business, was framed for a murder, haunted by a dick, and yes, eventually realized her husband really was a no-good cheat. Her blood pressure had spiked. Scabs from the swan and duck incident still peppered her legs. A deep ache throbbed in her ankle that had been sprained. Her boobs had been squashed, her heart broken, her ovaries laughed at, and she probably had Giardia and parasites from the Shrine’s pond water.

But now, God, a Higher Power, the Buddha, Ganesh, Archangel Michael, Moses, or someone else up in heaven had smiled down upon her and finally cut her a break.

“That’s lovely,” Annie said to Thinnest. “Where do we start?”

“I’ll give you the tour,” Thinnest said. She walked out from behind the front counter.

Ten feet from the counter stood a solid woman with a beckoning smile, warm inviting eyes, dressed in a long white lab coat. She set her sights on Annie. “Yo, girl. Can you even see over those eye circles?”

Annie turned. Saw a portable reclining facial chair close to the retail section of the spa’s lobby. Next to the chair was a tray filled with every kind of cream and elixir imaginable. This   beautiful older African-American woman gestured at her, friendly. “Special free mini-facials today, at Inhale Spa.”

Annie stood, frozen. She heard, “free mini-facials…free mini-facials…free mini-facials…” It was mesmerizing. Perhaps addictive. Step aside, Kettle-Chips.

“Good lord, honey, you look to be under heaps of stress. We’re promoting a new line of the most amazing facial products you’ll ever find, called STARZ. You come here first, let Ms. Caroline work on you, and visit those healing waters, after.”

Annie looked at Thinnest. “What do you think?”

Thinnest gave her the once-over. “You gotta do something for those eye circles. I’m off now. Someone could give you the tour later. But, it’s pretty self-explanatory and you can figure it out, yourself.”

Ms. Caroline took a liking to Annie. Instead of a mere twenty-minute mini-facial, an hour later Annie still lay on her back, on the portable facial table. A long strip of cotton ran over her forehead and protected her hair from the STARZ moisturizing mask on her face, neck and upper chest. Cucumber slices covered her eyelids, and a magic tangerine colored elixir potion saturated her under eye circles. Annie spilled her guts to Ms. Caroline about her travails, and in return Caroline shared a few of her own.

“When I went through my first divorce, I thought I was gonna die,” Caroline said. “Herbert took everything. I went on welfare.” She washed off the moisturizing mask from Annie’s face with a little sponge that she dipped in a tray of STARZ’ Vitamin water, repetitively. “My second divorce was from Icy Riot.”

“No way!” Annie said. “You were married to that rapper dude with the crazy bling?”

“Five long tortuous years. I negotiated for Riot to put me through cosmetology school. I am now a licensed and professional cosmetologist.”

“You rock!”

The Observer entered the Spa and recognized Annie despite the salad on her face. Also identified Tawny, who walked out of the entrance/exit from the women’s side of the spa.

Tawny wore a scarf over her head and huge black sunglasses. The miniscule part of her face still visible was bright red, like carpaccio. She leaned over the front desk, and a male waif clerk leaned forward to help her. “Reverend Sunshine Fuller?”

Tawny whispered through puffy lips. “I did a little more than I planned. Did the reporter show?”

The Male Waif pointed at Annie reclined in the facial chair with the cucumbers on her eyelids.

Tawny glanced and nodded. “Tell her I had to leave early and attend to my flock. We’ll reschedule for a few days,” Tawny said. “Put a little twenty dollar giftie for her, on my account. Because I still want the magazine piece. I mean, world peace. Peace for the children of the world, all over this land.”

“Yes, Reverend Fuller. I’ll handle it.”

“Blessings!” Tawny turned and scurried out Inhale Spa’s front door.

The Observer thought that after all this time, things were finally falling into place. She walked to the front desk, signed in and strolled through the open doorway next to the “Women Only” sign.

Ms. Caroline wiped off the tangerine goo from under Annie’s eyes. Handed her a mirror. Annie looked at her reflection and almost fell off the chair. No dark eye circles, no puffiness. She looked ten years younger. “You’re a miracle worker. Thank you! How can I repay you? What is this stuff?”

“It’s STARZ new, completely cruelty-free harvested Caviar Eye Gel. The fish are lightly sedated and their eggs are gently removed. They live long productive lives and have many more eggs later.”

“If only I were so lucky,” Annie said.

“The caviar is then mixed with trace elements, amino acids and mineral in a completely natural top-secret formula. There’s nothing remotely like it on the market.”

Annie smiled. “That’s amazing. Sold! I must have it.”

Ms. Caroline handed her a business card. “It’s $300 for a three month supply.”

Annie frowned. “That’s, that’s…” That’s way out of her price range. Annie couldn’t afford that for soft-boiled eggs for breakfast, eggs benedict at lunch, or an omelette for dinner. It was bittersweet, because when she gazed in that mirror, she looked like her old self, before all the stress.

The Male Waif walked up to her with a big fat smile on his scrawny pasty face. Since when were cool trendy spa employees allowed to smile? She surmised his smile was false – something had gone wrong with her Tawny interrogation. She eyed Ms. Caroline, who got it. Annie braced for the bad news.

“Oh, you look fabulous!” the Male Waif said to Annie.

“Cut the crap. What’s wrong?”

“A member of Reverend Fuller’s congregation called her away. She needs to reschedule,” the Male Waif said.

“She wants to reschedule?” Ms. Caroline said. “Ms. Annie is – ”

“Ms. Crystal Light from Towering Cathedral Magazine,” Annie said.

“Ms. Crystal Light is a hot young journalist, and no one wastes her time!” Ms. Caroline said. “Honey, don’t you have a relative of Reverend Graham lined up for your magazine cover? Or was that Doctor Schuller’s cousin?”

Annie broke into a sweat. She was so close to figuring out this mystery; this show could not be over. She had to nail the killer, who had to be Tawny. Because she could not spend one more day, one more hour, one extra second with Derrick or she’d pull out all her hair and tattoo 666 on her scalp.

Of course then, he materialized. She saw his three quartered naked behind in his silver thong as he rifled through the New Arrivals section in the Yoga Wear area.

“You look good, Cupcake. I think we’re close to discovering who killed me. In fact, I hear the voice of my mother calling to me from the other side. She’s saying, ‘Derrick. Derrick. Only in the privacy of your own room, not in the middle of a grocery store, I beg you.’ I think that’s a common phenomena right before people pass over.”

The Male Waif played his ace. “Reverend Fuller wanted to assure Ms. Light that her time is valuable. She instructed me to give Ms. Light a spa gift to show her good faith.”

Derrick eyed Annie. “The eye cream,” he said and walked to her side.

Ms. Caroline declared, “She wants STARZ’s new completely cruelty-free harvested Caviar Eye Gel.”

The Male Waif blinked. “That item’s sold out. Sorry.”

Ms. Caroline pointed to boxes of the STARZ Eye Gel lined up on the product counter. “What are these?”

Derrick said, “The eye cream or no magazine cover.” He swiveled his hips, eyed the Male Waif and licked his lips.

The Male Waif regarded Annie. His eyes narrowed and he countered, “A paraben free wax hand treatment.”

Annie looked at Derrick. He winked at her. She stared down Male Waif and said, “The STARZ’s new completely cruelty-free harvested Caviar Eye Gel.”

“A paraben free wax hand treatment and a naturally lemon scented potpourri for your car.”

“The Eye Gel,” Annie said, stood up, put her hands on her hips and swiveled them.

“A paraben free wax hand treatment, a naturally lemon scented potpourri, and…” the Male Waif paused for a second. “The organic Bee-Beautiful lip balm.”

“Lip balm?” Derrick exclaimed. “Does this guy think you’re some bimbo beach bunny who forgot her sunscreen as well as her brain? God, I miss those girls.”

“The Eye Gel,” Annie replied. “Or no magazine cover for the Reverend Fuller. Do you really want to lose a celebrity client who not only spends big bucks, but drops your name when she’s interviewed by In-Style Magazine?”

Derrick and Ms. Caroline applauded.

Male Waif eyed Annie, Caroline and blinked. “Yes. The STARZ Caviar Eye Gel it is. You can pick it up after your visit to our Healing Waters, or…”

“Oh, I’ll pick it up right now,” Annie said.

“That’s perfect, Ms. Light. You should know that Inhale Spa closes early tonight for a special event. I don’t believe you’re on the guest list.” The Male Waif smiled, smug.

“Whatever, Bucko.”

The healing waters section at the Inhale Spa was perfect. Annie snuggled into her cuddly long extra thread count robe. Pulled the sash tight. She was in the locker room, a tiny meticulous area with floor-to-ceiling lockers. Unlike high school gym class, where everything smelled like B.O., this place smelled like eucalyptus. She patted her purse in the locker. It appeared swollen ’cause it was stuffed with samples of STARZ products that Ms. Caroline had given her, as well as the eye gel. Around her, a few women pulled their clothes on or off, as they prepared to leave or relax. Annie closed the locker’s door, set the secret code on the lock and spun it shut.

Since Tawny cancelled, Annie wouldn’t be late. Since the spa was closing early, she also couldn’t dally. She walked from the impeccable changing area past chairs occupied by several women who sat in front of the countertops filled with jars of Q-tips, cotton balls, sterilized hairbrushes, and body lotions. They applied their makeup, and styled their hair. Maybe they were going to the special event tonight.

New Age music played through invisible speakers in the pristine bathroom area where the sinks and floors and showers were covered in Italian granite. Scales lined up next to the sinks. No way in hell she was going to step on a scale. She walked past the steam and sauna rooms and stared at the pools.

Oh God, they were beautiful. The pool on the left was long, thin, like a lap pool. It had crystal clear rushing water for resistance and calorie burning. According to signs posted on the walls over them, the two smaller pools on the right were: 1. A Dead Sea salt mineral infused hot tub designed to relax every tight muscle in one’s body, and 2. A cold Icelandic water dipping pool. Between the pools were baskets of apples, oranges and organic trail mix samples. A stand on the adjacent wall featured herbal teas and filtered drinking water. Holy guacamole, maybe she should get divorced and haunted more frequently.

Derrick followed Annie. “I was thinking since Tawny cancelled, that perhaps we could…”

“No,” Annie said. “I tried to interview Tawny. She split. I am relaxing. I have lovely eyes and am one with the universe. While I appreciate your negotiation skills, I will talk to you, later.”

She walked away from him. Where to start? She’d open her pores first in the eucalyptus steam room. Relax in the hot tub, maybe find the best jets, (boy, was she overdue in that department,) and take a dip in the cold pool. She’d check out the trail mix before she headed home and called Brother Madison again, to reschedule with Tawny. Annie pushed open the heavy door to the steam room, and headed inside.

The Observer lay on a chaise lounge chair next to the hot tub and sipped some tea. She watched Annie walk into the steam room and frowned. She was through with stalking and shocking. The last time she felt this angry she almost killed someone.  The killing thing seemed to be turning into a habit. The Observer got up off her chair and walked towards the steam room.

Thick clouds of steam puffed from ceiling and wall jets in spurts and hisses. The steam saturated the small tiled room. The hot fog almost obscured two tiers of tiled benches. Annie found her way to the first bench in the steam room’s corner and plopped down. She closed her eyes. The eucalyptus smelled cleansing and felt refreshing. Steam away, she thought. Steam away the hurt, the pain, the tobacco lungs and the stress. Help me open my heart and breathe in new life.

The door to the steam room opened and closed. Annie squinted and watched a woman attired in a robe, with the hood pulled over her head, enter the room. She took a seat on a bench adjacent to Annie, dropped her hooded head in her hands and sighed. Yet another overly stressed soul. It was like an epidemic in Los Angeles.

Annie reflected on the most recent events. Was Tawny flakey and sweet? Or simply, a calculating killer? Who else stood to gain from the old will? Yes, the percentages had changed on who got what. Was there anything else to bequeath, besides the money?

Yes. She thought of eggs. Not the fish eggs that eliminated her under eye circles, but fertile, baby-making eggs. Probably two-thirds of women in the world at some point, wanted to be in an intimate committed relationship and have a kid. Then there was…

Derrick’s frozen, but yet still viable sperm was listed in his will. He’d offered her a baby from a vial of his man seed popsicles that resided in a tiny cold vault at St. Cecelia’s Sperm Bank, but he’d also promised his swimmers to someone else. “Derrick!” she said in her head. “To whom else did you promise sperm? Who in your life really wanted to be a mom?”

Derrick examined his eyebrows in the immaculate bathroom mirrors just feet from the steam room. He read somewhere that one’s hair continued growing after death. Apparently this was true, as spare longish, hairs littered his formerly groomed brows. He thought he heard someone call his name. Sounded like Annie. She could sit for a while and stew. How many times could a guy apologize?

Dammit, the healing waters would have to wait. Annie had to call Detective Rafe with her new insight. She got up from the steam room bench and headed towards the door.

The hooded woman got up at the same time and stood in front of her. “Excuse me,” Annie said. She tried to walk around the woman, who took a step in the same direction and blocked her way. Obviously, this poor dear was not only stressed but also hearing impaired. “I’m sorry,” Annie said loudly and slowly. “I hate to interrupt your cleansing pore therapy, but I must leave. Now.” She touched the arm of this exhausted, possibly deaf woman and tried to step around her.

Annie reeled backwards. She flew like a cheesy cable news guy getting Tasered for better ratings. She landed hard on the steam room’s floor in a heap, seething with anger like some wannabe who’d been cruelly voted off a reality show. But this wasn’t her anger. Yeah there – this reaction was definitely an empathic hit.

The hooded woman really didn’t like her. The woman wanted to kill her.

Annie heard a distinctive click; the sound of a gun cocking. Thank you, brother Carson, his gun-nutty friends and a thousand episodes of Law & Order.

The woman pointed a gun at Annie. “No-go, Dimwit. Thanks to you, my sperm, my future child will be destroyed tomorrow,” the woman said. “I have a window and you’ve been messing with it for weeks. But you will not close my window. Because I am slamming yours shut, forever.” The woman shoved the gun in Annie’s ribs.

Annie gasped. “Derrick!” she screamed. Between the thick steam and her attacker’s hood she couldn’t see the woman’s face. “Derrick – help!”

“Derrick’s dead, you idiot,” The woman poked Annie in her ribs with the gun again. “You will be soon, too. Thanks to fertility drugs and my twenty-four hour admittance pass to St. Cecelia’s, I have access to his sperm.”

Annie knew this was her only moment.

“Oh my God!” she exclaimed as she whip turned and stared over her shoulder. “Over in the corner - is that Angelina? Should she be in the steam if she’s pregnant again?” In the millisecond that the hooded woman turned to look, Annie grabbed the gun and wrestled its barrel away from her stomach.

“Derrick!” Annie screamed.

Derrick watched Bootsy Bauerfeld meander into the spa’s bathroom area. She wore the spa’s signature sashed robe and eyed the scales. Bootsy looked in the mirror and pulled in her tummy. Had she lost weight? The scales told the truth.

Out of nowhere, Annie screamed his name. This time it wasn’t in his head. Even Bootsy heard it and glanced around, curious. The stitch on Derrick’s dead butt cheek itched for the first time since he was alive. He had a strange feeling that Annie found his killer.

Annie and the woman fought for control of the weapon. Annie located a major steam vent when she leaned against it and burnt her arm. Hurt like a mother, but gave her a great idea. She kicked the woman repetitively in her shin and shoved her backwards - right over the steam vent. The steam released and hissed loudly. Right on the back of the hooded woman’s head. Score!

“I estimate these robes have a 200% plus thread count,” the woman said. “Nice try. That won’t even pop a blister.”

“Derrick! Help! Not kidding!” Annie hollered.

Derrick surmised this was his moment to pass to the After-Life. He looked in the mirror. He was reasonably coiffed. He licked his finger and tried to tame his errant eyebrow hairs. If it was his time, he had to be presentable and prepared. Checklist: Franco, his son, was safe and taken care of. His new will had been read. He, Dr. Derrick Fuller was still fabulous. Anything else before he transitioned? Oh right, the identity of his killer. And the well being of Annie Rose Graceland. He promised. He turned from the mirror and strode through the door that led into the steam room.

Derrick saw Annie wrestling for a gun with a person wearing a hooded robe.

“For the love of God, Derrick. What are you waiting for? The Labor Day Sale at Macy’s?”

“I’ll do the world a favor by taking you out,” the woman said. “You’re nuts. You don’t deserve to be a mother.”

“What?” Annie asked.

“What!” Derrick exclaimed.

The two women grappled, kicked, slipped and landed on the wet tiled floor. The gun flew across the room into a far corner.

“What can I do?” Derrick asked.

The woman kneed Annie in the stomach.

“Oof!” Annie yelled. “Find a way to call 911. Say hello to the chick that killed you. Do you recognize her?”

“No! I can’t see her face with that hood. Stop playing cutesy and get rid of the hood.”

“Cutesy?” Annie said.

“Don’t you dare call me “cutesy”! I’m a professional,” the woman said. “What are you? Nothing but a family wrecker.”

“Cupcake killer!” Annie countered. “Why would anyone want to bear your child, Derrick?”

“It might be a good idea to be nice to me, if you want me to save you.”

“Me, be nice? Kiss my – ”

The woman slugged Annie across her face. Annie reeled. Her attacker grabbed the towel draped on her shoulder, wrapped it around Annie’s throat and strangled her from behind.

“I’m more than happy to tell you, “Why?” she hissed into Annie’s ear. “Because I loved him, I believed in him and he promised me. He promised me, for years.”

Annie collapsed on the tiled floor, struggled, and tried her best to pull off the towel squeezed like a boa constrictor around her neck. She gurgled and eyed Derrick. “Ah die Dick – no Afa-Life fa you. Ah pomise,” Annie said. She pulled on the towel with both hands. But the woman, Derrick’s killer, had her in a chokehold.

Derrick flew out the steam room’s door and spotted Bootsy, nibbling a little trail mix and eyeing the scales. He leaned in and caressed her face. “It’s time, Bootsy. Do it. I promise. You lost a boat load of weight.”

Bootsy’s face turned red and she fanned herself. Put one foot on the scale, looked a little scared and took that foot off. She turned and headed for the healing waters.

Derrick jumped in front of her, grabbed her shoulders, jiggled his silver thong package. “No Bootsy! You’ve counted cals, cut out carbs, went on the cookie diet, walked a thousand miles on the treadmill, and even started an organic line of healthy diet foods. It’s time Boots. I promise you.”

Boots hesitated, looked back at the scales.

Annie choked from the towel wrapped like a vise around her neck. “Why me?” she squeaked. Knew it was a stupid question, but sometimes stupid questions bought time when the person killing you, needed to vent, first.

“Because you and your idiot cheating husband mocked my dream. After twenty years of empty promises, even I had a breaking point. Frankly, your cheating husband, your blossoming bakery business and your desire to have a child made you, Dimwit, easy to frame.”

Annie grunted. Her eyesight blurred. Perhaps due to the steam, or all the blood squeezing out of her brain. A vision of a big fat devil’s food cupcake appeared before her like it was on a high-def plasma TV big-screen. Annie knew that cupcake had no trans-fat, was completely healthy because it was wrapped in cellophane with a Piccolino’s pastry sticker on top. Her sticker, when she was still married, before her Valentine’s Day Major Life Debacle #12. It was probably a pre-death hallucination. Or was it…

An empathic hit? Devil’s Food Cupcakes. Piccolino’s pastries. Who knew Annie was a baker? Who wanted Derrick’s baby? Who thought she was easy to frame? Who knew Mike was cheating? Maybe someone else who was romantically involved with Derrick.

Bootsy Bauerfeld stood in front of a scale in the spa’s bathroom area. She took a deep breath.

“You can do it Boots,” Derrick whispered in her ear. He put his hand on the small of her back and pushed her towards the scale.

Bootsy kicked off her spa slippers. She took off her earrings, necklaces, rings, toe rings, ankle bracelets, and medic-alert bracelets and placed them on the counter next to her. She shrugged off her robe and wobbled naked towards the scale. Hesitated.

Derrick felt bad he hadn’t encouraged Bootsy to train with Ginger. “Jenny Craig’s sitting in a dark closet, shoving double stuffed Oreos down her throat and contemplating slitting her wrists. Do it, Boots. I am Dr. Derrick Fuller and I promise you.”

Bootsy stepped on the scale. Adjusted the first big marker. Adjusted the smaller marker. Stared at it and screamed out loud. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” she exclaimed.

Derrick covered his ears. Then his eyes.

Distracted by Bootsy’s screams, Annie’s attacker turned her head and lightened her grip on the towel. Annie seized the opportunity, yanked the towel from around her neck and head butted the woman. She whip turned, grabbed the woman’s hood and tried to pull it off. “Who are you? Why did you kill Derrick? Why did you set me up?”

The woman kicked and resisted her. But the hood came off in stages. An inch, a little more. Another four inches revealed her attacker’s face.

Derrick poked his head back through the steam room’s door. “Jennifer?”

Annie looked shocked. “Nurse Jennifer?”

Nurse Jennifer’s eyes were wild. Annie didn’t think the fight was out of her yet.

Neither did Derrick. “I’ve known Jennifer for twenty years and she’s got a stubborn streak. I’d scream first and ask questions later.”

Annie screamed and Jennifer bolted. Already on her hands and knees, Annie slapped the floor of the steam room with both her hands until she found the gun.

Jennifer raced out of the steam room door and was into spa bathroom territory when Annie grabbed her ankle.

Bootsy was apoplectic and doing the naked happy dance when Annie grabbed Jennifer’s hair.  Jennifer crashed to the ground next to Bootsy.

Annie crawled out of the steam room with the gun trained on Jennifer. “Bootsy Bauerfeld,” Annie said.

Booty’s eyes widened as she saw Annie with the gun. She stopped dancing.

“Huge congrats on the weight loss,” Annie said. “Now, step away from the murdering bitch on the floor and call 911.”

Bootsy complied, grabbed her robe and ran out of the bathroom area.

“Derrick promised me a baby. For twenty years. He promised,” Jennifer said and wrung her hands. “I excused his affairs. Then he changed his will. I knew it when I saw him with Franco. He lied. Over and over, Derrick, Mr. I Promise Fuller lied. What was I supposed to do?”

Sirens rang in the distance.

“Jeez. I don’t know. There doesn’t seem to be a lack of sperm in the world,” Annie said. “Murder the lying jerk and risk going to prison or worse. Option B: Buy someone else’s manly juice at a friendly sperm bank. Or Option C: Hang at a local sports bar during Monday night football. You’d score a free couple of beers and not even pay for your swimmers.”

“But I loved Derrick. I took care of him throughout his entire cancer ordeal.”

“We grew close,” Derrick said. “I promised her….” He looked embarrassed.

“Derrick, you have to stop promising things you have no intention of giving,” Annie said. “It’s not right, it’s not fair and it hurts people.”

“At least you get it,” Jennifer replied.

When Detectives Kyle Pardue and Rafe Campillio burst into Inhale Spa’s healing waters’ bathroom, guns drawn. Kyle aimed his weapon at Annie. Rafe aimed his at Jennifer.

“Drop the gun,” Kyle said to Annie. “I knew there was something wrong with you.”

Annie dropped the gun.

Rafe walked past several black and white police cars on his way to a paramedic van parked outside the spa. A policeman strung yellow tape strung around the spa’s sidewalk perimeter. Another uniformed cop manned the boundary and politely turned away invitees for tonight’s event. Two more cops gently pushed back the growing crowd of curious looky-loos.

Annie sat on the open-ended back of a paramedic’s truck. A paramedic gal checked her arm and leg reflexes. She kicked and spasmed appropriately which she assumed meant her reflexes were responsive and healthy. The paramedic shone lights in her eyes. They tracked correctly. That probably meant she didn’t have brain damage. Someone on the EMT squad asked her what day it was and who was the current president. She answered correctly on the president question, but screwed up on the tricky day question. Annie was exhausted. Rafe walked up and asked her if she wanted to go to the hospital. She said no.

Kyle walked past with Nurse Jennifer in handcuffs. Pushed her into a black and white. “My collar,” he said as he glanced at Rafe and a couple of Santa Monica’s finest. No one argued. Kyle got into the front passenger seat and the car pulled away.

Rafe noticed the multi-colored bruises forming on Annie’s face and throat. “We want to question you at the station. You okay with that?”

“Step aside. Move it,” Julia said as she pushed her way through the crowd to the paramedic’s truck.

Annie saw Julia. Her face was flushed, she was sweaty, her blouse undone to bra level and a big hickey blossomed on her neck. “You called Julia?” Annie asked Rafe. “Am I still a suspect?”

“Yes, I called Julia. She’s your best friend. I believe that you were set up in Derrick Fuller’s murder, and I believe that you’re actually a witness,” Rafe said. “While Jennifer admitted she killed Dr. Derrick Fuller, you’re not out of the woods yet.”

Annie looked at Rafe. “You’re cute, smart, thoughtful and hotter than an organic chipotle pepper farm. I’m from Wisconsin. I’m, butter, milk. I’m dairy. I get this vibe that you like me. Why?”

Rafe leaned into her and rubbed her shoulders. “I’m lactose tolerant,” he said.

Julia spotted Annie in the back of the paramedic van and flashed her assistant public defender badge at the uniformed cop. “I’m Annie Rose Graceland’s attorney.” She ran to the back of the van. “No one talks to Annie Graceland without my permission. Got it?” Julia frowned, buttoned her blouse back up and tried to look tough.

“Absolutely,” Rafe said. “I’ll be back in a few.” He turned and walked towards the spa.

Annie smiled. “Thanks, Julia. Nice hickey.”

“Welcome,” Julia said. “I enjoyed getting it.”

Annie saw Derrick standing next to Julia.

He smiled at her. “Job well done, my gorgeous empath. I believe our contract has been fulfilled. I’m leaving for the After-Life. Thank you. I will never forget you,” Derrick said. He took her hand, kissed it. Leaned forward and kissed her swollen cheek. “If we met under different circumstances, I know we’d be more than friends,” he said. Derrick turned and walked off in his silver Pucci thong, invisible to almost everyone on the commercial street.

“Hey, Derrick!” Annie called after him.

He turned around and smiled at her.

“Good luck.”

Derrick winked at Annie. “If you don’t hop aboard the Detective Rafe E-ticket, I might find a way to beat you to it.”

She flipped him the finger.

He laughed. “You’re my best Derrick’s Darling, ever,” he said and walked off. He disappeared into the evening fog, the hoards of tourists, the thing that was the beautiful pristine city of Santa Monica, California.

The next morning, the fog lifted and the sun was high in the sky by the time Annie and Rafe paused at her Victory Gardens. They talked about her tomatoes, sprouting green and leafy with some small yellow flowers that looked like tiny bells. Rafe told her Jennifer was booked and hadn’t made bail yet. He said her tomatoes looked healthy and asked what variety she had planted.

She explained to him that she went back and forth between Romas and Big Boys.

He said, “I expect you to save one for me.”

She and Rafe walked to her apartment door. “The day I met you...” he said as he took her hand.

“What?” she asked.

“I pictured this,” Rafe leaned her back against her front door and kissed her. He pulled her closer to him, tight.

This man, Raphael Campillio was solid and sweet. He liked that she was smart, got her sense of humor, and didn’t care that she was a little wacked. He made her laugh. She hadn’t told him about her empathic curse/gift yet. Annie decided that was a conversation to be shared down the line. And oh God, his skin, mouth, and shoulders rocked. Their kiss and this moment felt more than right. She kissed Rafe back and said his name, “Raphael,” to herself. Then said it out loud, “Raphael, do you want to come inside for a bit?”

“Yes.”

Annie fumbled for her keys in her purse.

Rafe pointed to the pot next to the front door growing basil with the key underneath it.

“Good call!” She reached down, snagged the key and high fived him. Rafe grabbed her hand, leaned her back against her front door and kissed her again. Holy smokes, this was ten times better than smoking!

Annie and Rafe lay on her sofa, arms and legs entwined, sheets draped and twisted over their bodies. They resembled a semi-naked Vanity Fair Magazine cover. Rafe kissed the length of Annie’s neck. “I’m sorry I never call before I come over. I promise…”

Annie put one hand over his mouth. “No.” She ran her other hand down the middle of his six-pack abdomen. “Don’t ever promise me. I beg you. No promises.”

Rafe took her hand from his mouth and kissed her palm. “You’re not free and clear yet, lady. Trespassing at the shrine. Duchess Myra Stoneycliff. Dr. Sanjay Patel? I’m going to press for some community service. I’m part of this community. And I can think of some services.” His hand moved under the sheet and caressed her body. He pulled her down to him, kissed her on the mouth and more. Much much more. Oh, joy.

She watched Rafe walk towards her shower.  She eyed his beautiful bod, and felt his yummy clean heart. This romantic thing with Rafe Campillio felt like a beginning, not an ending.

Suddenly Rafe’s muy bien ass was obscured by another, much bigger one.

Derrick Fuller stood in front of her. His silver thong package jiggled as he jumped up and down. “Annie! Pay attention. The detective guy’s hot. Awesome you’re not my murder suspect, anymore. But I will not be ignored. I need your help,” Derrick said.

“No, no, no!” She frowned, and scrunched her eyes closed. “You’re a bad dream, Derrick. You’re in the After-Life, getting some job with a happy ending. Leave me alone!” Her eyes flew open, horrified. “How long have you been here?”

He grinned. “You might be out of practice in the you-know-what department, but I’d play the ponies you catch up in no time.”

“We had a deal, Derrick.”

“Totally not my fault. Your grandmother, Nonna Maria, who is pretty hot by the way, snagged me while I was crossing over. She said ’cause I haunted her in purgatory, that I couldn’t pass to the After-Life until I hit purgatory for a couple of decades. I’m not even Catholic. I love the priest’s outfits and their fun little hats. I admit the art in Catholic churches is to die for. But, I can’t hang out in purgatory, Annie. It’s very beige. I don’t do beige. You have to help me. This is about me, Annie. I Promise you…”

“No!” said, and turned on her boom box. You’re So Vain lamented Carly Simon.

“Oh come on. One of my most important clients was murdered a couple of nights ago. Still here spiritually, but confused, the lovely man reached out to me for advice and help. If we help him, I’ll earn enough good karma points to catapult me into the After-Life.”

“No!” she said, got up off the couch and walked to her kitchen. Opened the door to her fridge and searched her fridge for cookies, or brownies. She settled on a big fat chocolate cupcake. She needed sustenance. She needed sanity. She needed to ditch this dead guy, forever.

Killer Devil’s Food Cupcakes

Description: Dark chocolate moist, rich cupcakes slathered in creamy dreamy icing. Several bites produce hallucinations of nirvana. Perhaps you even died and went to heaven. Or not.

Ingredients & Directions: Wait until your cupcakes are cool before applying icing.

*Special Note: Only inject cyanide into the cupcake, if you sincerely want to murder the person who will eat it.

Appropriate Occasions: Losing unwanted eye circles. The art of negotiation. Connecting the murder dots.

Best Served With: Justice. Cha-Ching! Law & Order (the soundtrack). Rejuvenation. Romance!

the end

307

Acknowledgments:

Thank you Ken Lewis at Krill Press for publishing this book. Thanks to three talented novelists: Lisa Lutz of The Spellman Files, Toni McGee Causey of the Bobbie Faye series and Jacqueline Carey of the Kushiel series. You inspired me. Thanks to Emilie Staat, Cheree Plank and MaryJo Schultz for the great notes. Ramona DeFelice Long, professional editor, made my book shine. Thanks Joe Wilson for explaining social media, Tim August for all things computer, and Deborah Riley-Magnus, Author Coach. Thanks to author Julie Smith Dolcemaschio, Rita Kemply, Ed Schneider and Nester O’Tazsu – you’re always there for me. Thanks Sadie Gilliam, photographer, for the photo and for hair and makeup. Mike Snyder and Harry Bromley-Davenport of the Trailer Guys and actress C. Aurora de Blas - thanks for the cool book trailer. Thanks to my family, POV and my clients. The Doctors: Carrie Hartney, Kimberly Krubeck, and John Montaghue. Thanks Erin Brockovich, Karen Rontowski, Carla Shamberg, Kim Kuskin, Monica Mason, Debra Sanderson, Melissa Black Ford, Shelly Fredman, Stephanie MacLean, Julie Weathers, Marsha Boyer, Paula Powers, Cecelia and Peter Douglas Russell, Joanna D’Angelo, Laura Schultz, Lynn Westman, Lori Goldsmith, Betty Macias, Diane Lindsay, Cher Rue, and Michele Montgomery. To all the Librarians. As a kid I stuttered badly. You fueled my love of books and helped heal me. Thank you. You can find more info at PamelaDuMond.com and Facebook. Now, go read a book, and tell someone you love about it!

Xo,

Pamela DuMond

About the author

Pamela DuMond is a writer, chiropractor and cranio-sacral therapist. She discovered and pitched Erin Brockovich’s true life story to a production company. She has written articles on intuition and synchronicity which were published in Soul Moments: Marvelous Stories of Synchronicity-Meaningful Coincidences from a Seemingly Random World, edited by Phil Cousineau. Originally from the Midwest, she now resides in Venice Beach, California. She lives for a good giggle. Cupcakes, Lies, and Dead Guys is her first novel.

Table of Contents

Galley Proof CUPCAKES