No Such Thing As a Good Blind Date: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As: A Brandy Alexander Mystery)

by Shelly Fredman

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “I do. Look, you can talk to Vince Giancola. He’s the Assistant D.A. I’ll go with you.”

  “I don’t think so. He’s the one who prosecuted me over that little incident with Ilene.”

  “Oh.” I could see where that might pose a problem.

  “Ya gotta help me.”

  What did he want me to do, drive the getaway car as he hightailed it out of town? I had a million questions, but they would have to wait. Someone was rattling the bathroom door, trying to get in.

  “Be out in a second,” I yelled. “Look, I’ve got to go. Give me a number where I can reach you. You haven’t answered any of my messages.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight. So, like, don’t tell anybody I called, okay? At least not until you hear me out.”

  “Alright, but if you don’t call me tonight, I’m calling the police.”

  “Fair enough. Thanks, Roomie. I knew I could count on you.”

  Dammit. Why does he have to be so…so…pathetically endearing? I must be nuts.

  Waiting tables is harder than it looks. There are so many things to remember; who ordered what, which customer is allergic to onions (especially important) and where the Epi-Pen is kept in case you forget. The customer is always right (even when they’re not) and if you want a good tip, don’t suggest to overweight people that they substitute salad for the fries, even if you’re doing it for their own good.

  Paul approached me midway through the shift. “I was thinking, maybe you’re more suited for hostessing. Ya know, the “meet and greet” type.”

  “No, no, I’m really getting the hang of this. Oh, and could you tell the people at table three that French Onion soup doesn’t stain. For some reason they don’t believe me.”

  Paul gave me a long look. “How about you be the hostess and I raise your salary to compensate for lost tips.”

  “That’s alright, Paul. I haven’t made any tips anyway.”

  I managed to get through the rest of the shift without incident but with newfound respect for people in the service industry. Paul caught me just as I was leaving for home.

  “Are you going to be alright tonight? Because I can come by after the club closes if you want.”

  “I’ll be fine, honest. Paul, you don’t have to baby sit me.”

  He slung his arm around my shoulder and walked me to the door. “But you’re my baby sister. Plus mom would kill me if I didn’t watch out for you.”

  “I’m the worst waitress in the history of customer service and you haven’t fired me. Nepotism notwithstanding, I think you’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty.” I kissed him on the cheek and told him I’d be back tomorrow. I’m not sure, but I think he blessed himself as I walked out the door.

  I stopped at the Acme on the way home. Since Toodie left I was back to eating Cheerios for dinner. It had started to rain, a slow, steady drizzle that picked up speed as I exited the car. By the time I made it inside the store, my hair was hanging in limp, sodden strands and my jacket, the ancient, woolen pea coat, was soaked through to my skin. I smelled like a Border Collie.

  I was perusing the frozen food aisle to see what was new in the world of Macaroni and Cheese, when I heard a small child’s voice about three feet in front of me.

  “Doggie,” she giggled. I looked up, wondering who would bring a dog into a supermarket. A two year old with the face of a Botticelli painting smiled innocently up at me. She was pointing a tiny finger in my direction.

  “Sophia, come here, sweetheart.”

  The voice stopped me cold. Bobby and I locked eyes as he scooped his beautiful daughter into his arms. His cart was filled to the brim with diapers, household essentials and fresh produce. It was the cart of a married man, a daddy. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey.” I love being caught off guard. It really sharpens my conversational wit.

  “This is my little girl, Sophia. Can you say hi to Brandy, honey?”

  A droplet of water from my bangs began making its way down my cheek. At that precise moment Marie DiCarlo rounded the bend from aisle twelve in search of her husband and daughter. Even with her face contorted in anger, she looked radiant. Bobby nodded to her. “Marie, this is an old friend, Brandy. Brandy, my wife, Marie.”

  “Um, we’ve met.”

  “What a touching scene,” Marie said, linking arms with Bobby. “But if you need consolation, I suggest you go somewhere else to find it.”

  “What?” Oh, she thought I’d been crying. I swiped away the raindrop. “No, I was caught in the rain.”

  Bobby’s face tensed under the fluorescent lighting. “Brandy, you don’t owe her an explanation.”

  “But she could use a bath,” Marie smirked. “She stinks.” All right, enough was enough. That bitch was goin’ down.

  “For your information, Marie, it’s the coat. And ya know I’ve had enough of your snide remarks. I’ve done absolutely nothing to warrant this attitude. If you’re insecure about your marriage, deal with it with him, and leave me the hell out of it!”

  There was a moment of dead silence, followed by an ear splitting wail.

  “Now you’ve upset the baby. Come here, mija.” Marie lifted Sophia out of Bobby’s arms and stalked off, showering me with a field of death rays as she went.

  “Ah, look—” Bobby started.

  “Just go,” I said, not bothering to look at him. I picked a frozen Mac n’Cheese out of the display case and threw it in my cart. “Your wife is waiting.”

  It was ten p.m. and still no word from Toodie. I waited all through The Gilmore Girls and two Will and Grace reruns. If it weren’t for the Hershey bars I’d consumed on the way out of the store, I would have been asleep by now. I scanned the newspaper in my obligatory job search and did the crossword puzzle, making up words just so I could fill it all in. I was just crawling into bed at midnight, when the phone rang.

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yeah, now spill it.”

  According to Toodie, Glen was a friend of a friend from prison. He’d called Toodie the other night and told him he had a freezer full of very expensive steaks, and if he helped him move them he’d cut Toodie in on the action. Long on enterprise and short on ethics, Toodie figured this was a harmless way to make a little extra cash. He drove out to meet Glen, and when he got there, the door was unlocked but Glen wasn’t home. He went around back and there was the freezer in a shed.

  “Glen didn’t tell me where he wanted the freezer moved to. Only that it was really important to get it out of there ASAP. I tried to call him but he wasn’t picking up his cell. So I figured as long as I was there, I’d pull the dolly out of the truck and take the freezer back to your house. I didn’t think there’d be any harm in that.”

  Wow. Hindsight is a truly worthless thing.

  “Did you ever get a hold of Glen?”

  “No, I called him a bunch of times, but he never answered his phone.”

  I thought about this for a minute. “Toodie, is it possible that Glen never intended to meet you there? That maybe he wanted you to move the freezer on your own?”

  “But why? He wanted a cut of the steaks too.”

  I sighed. “Toodie, they weren’t steaks, remember?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Toodie, where are you?”

  “I can’t tell ya. Look, I want to, I really do, but it’s too risky. Glen must know by now that I know what was in the freezer. And he knows I can nail him. This guy is really bad news, Brandy. I mean, psycho meth-freak kinda bad.”

  “Then come out of hiding. Talk to the police. Bobby Di-Carlo’s on the case. You know he’d give you a fair shake.”

  I could feel Toodie mulling this over in his brain. It was burning up the cell waves.

  “Not yet. I was sort of hoping you could do a little investigating for me. Like, check out Glen’s house, maybe gather some clues. I know you’re really great at that sort of thing.”


  Once, I did it once, and it almost got me killed in the process.

  “I don’t know, Toodie. You said this guy is psycho.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t mean for you to knock down his door or anything. Just kinda scope it out. If you can find anything at all to prove what I’ve been telling you, then maybe I can go to the police.”

  It actually sounded reasonable to me. “Okay. I’ll do it. But if I come up empty, I’m going to have to tell the cops.” Before we hung up, I asked him about the dog.

  “I found him wandering around about a half a block from Glen’s house. He looked all sad and pathetic. I had to help him.”

  Sort of like me and Toodie.

  I woke up feeling vaguely depressed. I hate to admit it but the situation with Bobby was really getting to me. The old Bobby would never turn his back on a friend. Then again, the old Bobby didn’t have a wife who threatened to disappear with his kid so that he’d never see her again. And after meeting Marie DiCarlo I had no doubt she could make that happen.

  In a way, I feel sorry for Marie. She’s in love with a man who doesn’t love her back, and she’s fighting to keep her marriage together. I really couldn’t fault her for that. Maybe if I had fought for Bobby four years ago, things would be different now. There’s that damn hindsight again. Anyway, the point is, she thinks I’m the problem, but I’m not.

  The address Toodie gave me was a seedy looking 1940’s duplex just off of Frankford Avenue. I was parked next to Jolly Jack’s bar, which, judging by the people staggering out of there, was a neighborhood hangout for the criminally insane. Glen’s apartment was a few doors down on the right; a wood and brick abomination that looked like it was in the throes of hurricane season. A filthy storm door hung precariously by one hinge. There was a trashcan, filled to overflowing, next to it. Garbage spilled out onto the street, causing the gutter to become clogged with the overflow.

  I was afraid to get out of the car, so I reached under the seat and pulled out a pair of mini binoculars that Paul had left after a Flyers’ game. I put them up to my eyes and zeroed in on the front window. The drapes were open and I had a clear view of the activities.

  A ruddy-faced woman in her sixties was sponging down the windowsill. Beyond her, I spied two beefy men in overalls, hauling huge bags of trash through the house. From what Toodie had told me, Glen didn’t seem like the Spring Cleaning type, so I gathered up my courage and unlocked the car door.

  I approached the apartment and gave a tentative knock. The front door opened, allowing me to see into the living room. If Glen lived there, he certainly couldn’t be accused of being a pack rat. The place was almost completely bare. “Yeah?” The woman with the ruddy face stepped out from behind the door.

  “Hi,” I said brightly. “I’m looking for Glen.”

  The woman narrowed her eyes so close together she looked like a Cyclops. “Stand in line. Does he owe you money?” she added as an afterthought.

  “No, um, can I come in for a minute?”

  She moved her ample body off to the side and allowed me to pass through. Clearly, Glen no longer resided there. A quick glance around the room told me I was lucky not to have crossed paths with him. A large, crudely drawn swastika was etched into the door jamb, leading into the bedroom. There was a hole in the ceiling that could only have been left by a high- powered rifle. Lucky for his neighbor, it was a side-by-side duplex and not the stackable kind. The walls had been washed down, but the outline of some cartoon-like, anatomically impossible pornography remained. A bucket of lemon-scented ammonia sat in a corner. The apartment was unbearably hot.

  “Broken thermostat,” the landlady shrugged. “You know you look too clean to be a friend of Glen’s,” she added. What do you want with him?”

  “Oh, I—”

  She interrupted me before I could think of a good lie. “Hey, you’re not one of those yuppie drug addicts are you? I’ve read about your kind in the paper.”

  I assured her I was not, although at this point I would have killed for a Xanex.

  The roar of an engine had me running to the door, but I was too late. The truck carrying Glen’s belongings had disappeared around the corner, and with it, my chance to rifle through his personal effects.

  “Where are they going with that stuff?” I asked.

  The woman shrugged. “City dump. It was all worthless crap anyway. Just clothes, an old mattress.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” During my tenure in Hollywood, I learned a few tricks about personalizing conversations. It tended to make people trust you.

  “Didi.”

  “Do you mind if I take a quick look around, Didi?”

  “Be my guest. Help yourself to anything that’s left over. That sonovabitch owes me two months rent. Snuck out in the middle of the night and left me with a stinking mess.”

  I was tempted to ask her if the mess included a woman’s head, but she was the chatty sort, and I figured if that were the case she would have mentioned it.

  I poked around some, but the cleaning crew was disappointingly thorough. There was no smoking gun, bloody knife or confession note left behind to point to Glen as the killer.

  I wandered into the kitchen. An old landline phone was tacked up to the wall and next to it, a bunch of numbers had been scribbled down. Ginos’ Pizza, Dale’s Pharmacy and a 900 number that, if my memory for late night cable TV commercials served me correctly, belonged to PhoneDatePlaymate. I took down the pharmacy number and walked into the bedroom.

  It was empty, except for a small waste paper basket that had somehow eluded the cleaning crew. I picked it up and examined the mostly revolting contents. There was not much to go on; an old lottery ticket, a broken hairbrush with a small tangle of hair stuck to it, some used Kleenex and an old TV Guide with a picture of Reba McEntire on the cover and her front teeth blackened out.

  I pocketed the lottery ticket and rooted through my pocketbook until I found a baggie. It was half filled with Cheez-its. I ate the Cheez-its and then placed the hairbrush in the baggie, in case the police needed it for DNA evidence somewhere down the line. Even as I went through the motions, I knew it was all a fruitless effort, but I’d promised Toodie I’d try to help. At least I established there really was a Glen.

  “One more thing, if you don’t mind,” I said to Didi. “Did Glen have a girlfriend?”

  “Are you a cop? Because I don’t want no trouble.”

  “No, I’m not with the police. I’m just looking for someone and I thought Glen might know where she is.”

  Didi was a lot more cooperative when she thought I had any actual authority over her. She picked up a broom and pointed it at my chest. “I’ve got work to do and you’ve been here long enough.”

  I agreed, but I wasn’t quite ready to go. I bent my head and made loud sniffing noises.

  “You crying?”

  I nodded vigorously. “It’s just that the woman I’m looking for is my sister. She’s missing and someone told me she may have hooked up with this low-life, and—and—”

  “That’s alright, honey.” She leaned the broom against the wall and gave me an awkward pat on the back, which I’m sure was meant to comfort, but actually really hurt. “I wish I could tell you more. I don’t live on the property. Maybe the guy next door can tell you something.”

  He wasn’t home but Didi took my phone number and promised to have him call me if he had any more information.

  Okay. I’d kept my promise to Toodie and checked out Glen. The logical thing to do now would be to tell the cops what I know. There was just one problem. While I was thinking of my little detour to Glen’s as a minor delay in disseminating information, they might interpret it as withholding evidence and obstruction of justice.

  If I had called them as soon as Toodie contacted me, they could have sent officers over to Glen’s to check out his place. He may even have still been there. But now any evidence of a crime being committed was washed away by Didi or hauled to the city dump. I coul
d just hear my mother’s voice if she ever got wind of this: “I’m very disappointed in you, Brandy Renee.” Well, mom, I’m very disappointed in me too. I really screwed up.

  Maybe if I could somehow locate Glen, I’d be able to go to the police with something substantial. Toodie had given me a fairly detailed description of the guy—about 5’9”, one hundred and thirty- five pounds, with a shaved head and a tattoo of a naked woman on his right forearm. I mean how hard could it be to find a methadrine-lovin,’ tattooed skinhead psychopath in the city of brotherly love? There’s one on every street corner. The trick was finding the right one.

  I took a quick cruise around the neighborhood before I headed home. I don’t know what I expected to find. Maybe Glen lurking in a dumpster but life is rarely so accommodating.

  I’d made some fliers about a lost dog and stuck them up haphazardly along Frankford Avenue. The thing is, I really liked the little guy and I wasn’t too anxious to find its rightful owner. But as John pointed out, what if it belongs to a lonely old lady, or some kid who cries himself to sleep every night wondering if his dog will ever come home. I’d lived in L.A. too long not to worry at least a little about Karma.

  It was Open Mic night at Paul’s club and the place was packed. Someone started a rumor (okay, it was me) that Keanu Reeves’ band was playing there, and all the locals flocked to the place to see a bonafide celebrity. I even got a little excited before I remembered I was the one who’d started the rumor.

  “Bran,” Paul said, rubbing his goatee in a gesture of frustration, “I know you’re just trying to help me out here, but do me a favor and be a little less helpful.”

  “Ya know,” I said, ignoring him, “I have some really good ideas for the club, Paul. For instance, Karaoke is very popular in L.A., and maybe we could put in an oyster bar and strobe lights over the dance floor and—”

  “Bran, you’re still looking for a real job, right?”

  “Oh, Paulie, if you’re worried that I’m going to leave you in the lurch, you can stop right now. You know I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  “You could, though. Honest. But in the mean time, do you think you could deliver these drinks to table six?”