Other Books in the
Brandy Alexander Mystery Series
No Such Thing as a Secret
No Such Thing as a Good Blind Date
No Such Thing as a Free Lunch
No Such Thing as a Free Ride
No Such Thing As A
Lost Cause
A Brandy Alexander
Mystery
Shelly Fredman
© 2012 Shelly Fredman. All Rights Reserved
eBook editions by eBooks by Barb for booknook.biz
Acknowledgments
I want to thank the following people, without whom I could not have written this book:
My "twin," Kris Zuercher, for spending countless hours reading rewrite after rewrite, and for helping me keep Brandy true to herself, my husband, Dudley Fetzer, for watching me go a little (okay, a lot) nuts and loving and supporting me anyway, my daughter, Corey Rose, for always knowing what a scene needs in order to make it better, Suzanne Dunham, for providing technical information, and for helping me with plot points, Audrey Matisa for offering up her wonderful talent to make the No Such Thing As…series visible on the Internet.
Special thanks to:
An’gel Ducote Molpus, for sharing so many hilarious "Brandy moments" on Facebook, Terri Dunn and Sassy Girls Book Club, for letting people know about my series, as well as to Joanna Banks-Morgan and Jill Dearden, for starting Facebook fan pages, and Anna Harp for maintaining our Yahoo group, Jerry Fest, for his help with the story line, Nick Carlson, for his technical advice, Carrie Gwaltney and Beth Dalebroux for being such strong Brandy supporters, and Marty Schatz, for our caffeine-induced brain storming sessions.
Kudos to:
Michael Canales for his brilliant cover art.
And huge shout outs to:
Judith Kristen, my "sister from another mother," author of A DATE WITH A BEATLE, ONCE UPON A TIME IN LIVERPOOL, MY NAME IS HENLEY, and THE MOOKIE SERIES, and to Pamela DuMond, author of the delightful Annie Graceland CUPCAKE mystery series.
In loving memory of
Caleb "Deuce" Fetzer
Prologue
For a reasonably intelligent, passably cute, street-savvy, adult female, I have had my share of crappy luck in the romance department, but this just takes the cake. It all started a few weeks ago, when my heart got in the way of rational thinking and, well, I’m not sure, but I may have had unprotected sex. Okay, I did. I’m not making any excuses—but, really, you had to be there.
I tried not to dwell on the possible repercussions of my impulsive behavior, (or, as my friend Janine put it, “Brandy, how dumb can you be?”) and concentrate on the happier aspects of my new relationship. But, two weeks and one missed period later, denial was no longer an option. And, as of thirty seconds ago, keeping it to myself didn’t appear to be an option either.
“Is there something you want to tell me, Darlin’?”
“Um, no?”
“I think you meant yes.” His tone was playful, but I knew he meant business.
Nicholas Santiago, beautiful, bad-ass mystery man, and my unofficial boyfriend of less than a week, stood at my bedroom door, holding a small box I’d mistakenly left on my bathroom counter. He turned it around so that I could see the words, written in pink, swirly script, surrounded by dancing daisies. Early Response Pregnancy Test.
“Oh, that,” I laughed, acknowledging the box with a dismissive wave of my hand. “It’s not what you think.”
Eyebrows arched, Nick walked over to the bed. He was naked, except for the white, surgical bandage that cut across his otherwise perfect, caramel-colored chest. The bandage protected the site of a gunshot wound, and the incision that followed, to remove a bullet meant for me.
I reached out and took the box from him. “It’s Fran’s.” Franny DiAngelo is Janine’s twin sister and the first name that popped into my head.
“Fran, who just had a baby two weeks ago?”
“Yeah, well, she’s not thinking clearly,” I told him. “Birthin’ a baby kills a lot of brain cells. You can’t get them back, you know.”
Nick studied me for a beat, and then he leaned down and kissed me softly on the mouth. My stomach got all skittery, and I made room for him to climb back into bed.
“It’s tempting, Angel,” he apologized, pulling on his jeans, “but I’m afraid I’ve got to get going. I have a business meeting in an hour.”
“It’s three a.m. Are we talking suit and tie business or Kevlar vest and semi automatic?”
I don’t know why I bothered asking. Nick won’t discuss his work with me, which, however morally correct, I’m guessing falls on the far left side of legal. I would have pressed, but I had some business of my own to attend to.
Grabbing my tee shirt off the chair next to my bed, I yanked it over my head and followed him downstairs. He stopped when he reached the door.
“So, I’ll see you later,” I said, unconsciously shifting my weight from one foot to the other.
Nick took a step outside, and then in a flash he was back and pinning me up against the wall.
“Forget something?” I squeaked.
“Just this.” He lifted my chin and kissed me, slow and sultry. I closed my eyes and melted against him, forgetting for a moment that my world was on the verge of collapse.
“By the way,” he said, catching me off-guard, “if you say you don’t have anything to discuss, I believe you because I know you’re always honest with me.”
“What? Are you kidding me? I lie all the time!” Unhh. “What I meant was—”
He cut me a wry smile. “We’ll talk later, Angel.”
I watched as Nick disappeared into the middle of the night. Then I went back upstairs, and opened the box with the dancing daisies, peed on the stick, and waited two of the longest minutes of my life.
When the time was up I said a Hail Mary and looked down at the stick. A little plus sign appeared in the window. As my Bubie Heiki on my father’s side of our Jewish-Italian family would say, “Oy vey.”
Chapter One
“Are you throwing up?”
“No.”
“Feeling dizzy?”
“No.”
“Crying for no reason?”
“No…well, I did shed a few tears during a Huggies commercial, but who wouldn’t? They’re very moving.”
“Uh oh.”
“What?” I said, alarmed.
“Emotional response to baby-related items. This could mean something.” Franny thought for a minute. “Do your boobs hurt?”
I felt around. “A little. Only I think it’s my bra. I should stop buying underwear at Hal’s Discount Mart.”
I was talking to Fran from my cubicle at WINN, a local cable news station serving the Greater Philadelphia area. I am the community liaison to the many varied and exciting happenings around town. Want to know where to get the best frozen yogurt? I’m your go-to girl. Need hula dancers for your next party? I’ll show you how to turn your living room into a tropical paradise! People tune in just to see what life-changing information I’ll be dispensing next. This station would be nowhere without me.
I glanced around the room to see if anyone was listening in. Art Metropolis looked up from his desk and shot me a big, greasy smile. Art is WINN’s political commentator and resident Nosy Nellie. I lowered my voice and continued.
“I’ve got a doctor’s appointment this afternoon.”
“Is Nick going with you?”
“No…um, I didn’t exactly tell him yet.”
Franny gave a very unladylike snort. “Oh, yeah. It’s way better to wait until the baby’s born. Guys really like to be surprised that way.”
“Sarcasm isn’t helping, DiAngelo.”
The truth is I was scared. I’ve been in love with Nicholas Santiago since the day I first laid eyes on him, and after months of relentless pursuing on my part, and mega resistance on his, Nick finally admitted he loved me too. But, given the newness of our relationship, not to mention his lifestyle, dangerous by anyone’s standards, and his family history, the last thing we needed to worry about was an unplanned pregnancy. I figured why bring it up until I was one-hundred percent sure.
A shadow crossed my desk and I looked up to see my boss, Eric, standing in front of me. At twenty-six, Eric is three years younger than I am. Eric’s okay, except that he’s something of a horn dog. He was leaning over trying to take a peek down my shirt, a loose-necked tee. Under normal circumstances, I would have threatened to smack him upside the head, but I needed a favor so I let it slide.
“Fran, I’ve gotta go.” I hung up and tugged at the collar of my shirt. At least he had the decency to look sheepish.
“So, uh, when you’re finished with the story on those freaks—I mean the concerned citizens who wanna fix the crack in the Liberty Bell, I need to talk to you about something,” he said.
“How about now? I need to talk to you too.”
I followed him down the hall to his office, a shrine to Philadelphia sports teams.
Eric sat down at his desk and began fiddling with a Charles Barkley Bobble Head. I settled into the chair across from him and jumped right in.
“Eric, I’ve been giving this a lot of thought, and I think it’s time I moved onto hard news. I mean, how valuable is puff piece reporting anyway? When you think about it, it’s really kind of a waste of air time. I want to sink my teeth into important issues, stuff that makes people think. And over the last several months, I believe I’ve proven I can take on hard hitting stories. I want—”
“We may have to let you go.”
“What?”
Eric tugged on the Charles Barkley doll, absently twisting it around until the head snapped off. He looked at it, surprised, and laid it on his desk.
“I’m going to give it to you straight, Brandy. The station has been experiencing some economic downturn lately, and we’re looking to cut back.”
“But—but—Eric, you can’t fire me! I bring a much-needed sense of whimsy, not to mention invaluable household tips into the dreary lives of our television-watching public. Our ratings went through the roof after my “behind the scenes” look at Clown College. And you should see the fan mail I got the day I worked the breakfast shift at Hooters!” (Okay, so it was one e-mail from an eighty-two year-old shut-in who asked me to be his new Meals on Wheels delivery gal, but still…)
“Brandy, I’m not arguing with you. Your report on waxing versus electronic hair removal was one of the biggest stories of the decade. Clearly, you’re a front-runner for a Pulitzer.”
“Fine, Eric, you’ve made your point, which is exactly why I wanted to talk to you in the first place. You know I can do more for the station. I’m working on an idea for a story right now. And they wouldn’t have to pay me any extra—at least not right away. Eric, I need this job.”
Eric picked up Charles Barkley’s head and began tossing it back and forth in his hands, thinking. “Well, there is a paid position that just came available.”
“Ooh, what is it? Do they need me to investigate that scandal at the docks? Oh, I know, there’s been talk about corruption at the City Planners’ Office. I could get on it right away.”
“Uh, actually, I was thinking more along the lines of man’s best friend.”
“Oh no,” I protested. “Not Godfrey the Traffic Dog. How am I ever going to be regarded as a serious reporter if I keep doing this kind of junk? Besides, it’s a hundred and five degrees in that suit. Plus it makes me look fat.”
“Now look, before you turn your nose up at this, just hear me out. If you take this on along with your current position, it’s job stability. Godfrey is very popular with our audience, but after what happened with Kevin, they were thinking of retiring the character. You could restore Godfrey’s good name.”
I had my doubts. About two weeks ago, Kevin Sanders, the guy who played the safety-tip dispensing canine was driving home from work when he stopped off at a local bar for a nightcap, It wasn’t the smartest move, seeing as he’d just come off a stint in rehab. Anyway, after downing his third rum and coke and being egged on by his drinking buddies, Kevin decided it would be hilarious to slip into his Godfrey costume and relieve himself next to a fire hydrant. It was! Only a passerby videotaped the whole thing and posted it on YouTube. The next thing he knew, he was paw cuffed and charged with indecent exposure.
I sighed. “Has the suit at least been cleaned?”
Eric grinned. “That’s the spirit, Alexander. In the mean time,” he added, “it wouldn’t hurt to polish up your resume, just in case.”
Twenty minutes later, (including a stop at Starbucks for a stress-relieving triple espresso on ice) I was on my way to Dr. Claybourne’s office for my appointment. I drove with the windows down in my parents’ old Le Sabre, a car I inherited when they moved to Boca. The air conditioner had sacrificed its life in the battle against the summer heat, and I couldn’t afford to resuscitate it. Nick offered to lend me his truck, but I’ve got a thing about taking favors, no matter how much fun it might be to repay them.
The summer air was hot and sticky and smelled like doughnuts. Philly has about three thousand doughnut shops on Broad Street, alone, which may explain the obesity rate in the City of Brotherly Love. I thought about making a pit stop for a powdered jelly, y’know, to take my mind off the possibility of being jobless and pregnant, but at that moment my cell rang. I knew I should have screened the call, only that would have entailed pulling over, and I was already running late.
“Why isn’t your brother answering his phone?” my mother began, as if we’d been having a lengthy conversation about that very subject.
I lowered the volume on my Bluetooth and switched over into the right hand lane. “I don’t know, Mom. He’s probably busy at the club.”
My brother, Paul, is part owner of a nightclub in Center City and (despite the occasional indiscretion involving the recreational use of a versatile natural fiber you can wear, smoke or bake) the pride of the Alexander family. In my mother’s eyes, Paul is Superman who can leap tall buildings in a single bound, while I’m the worrisome wild-child in perpetual need of babysitting. I guess I should resent this characterization, but it’s sort’ve true.
“Is there something I can help you with, Mom?”
“That’s very sweet of you, honey. Drive over to Paul’s and tell him I need to talk to him.”
“I meant maybe I could help you with whatever you needed Paul for.”
“Oh.” She considered this. The thought clearly had not crossed her mind. “Well, I don’t see why not.”
Wow. She trusts me. I am so not going to let her down!
“Since your father and I can’t fly in for your Cousin Marlene’s daughter’s wedding, I was going to ask Paul to represent us. But now that I think about it, he’s so busy running his own business, you’re right. You should go.”
Crap. “Mom, you won’t believe this, but I’m busy that day. What are the odds, huh?” Too late I realized she hadn’t mentioned the date. “I’m busy the whole month of August,” I added, to be on the safe side.
She exhaled so deeply I thought she’d pass out from lack of oxygen. “Have your brother call me.”
I clicked off the call, feeling horribly guilty for having lied to my mother, (and so poorly) but the guilt was soon replaced by a major attack of nerves. With my heart slamming firmly against my chest, I pulled up to Dr. Claybourne’s building and climbed out of the car.
*****
“I don’t know if this is good news or bad, but you’re not pregnant.”
“I’m not?” I allowed Dr. Claybourne’s words to sink in as my shoulders did a slow descent from up around my ears.
“But, the home test said—”
“Which is why we ran a complete diagnostic. Brandy, it’s easy to make a mistake with those home tests.”
“That’s really nice of you, Dr. Claybourne,” I said, feeling like ridiculous. “But you pee on a stick and count to a hundred and twenty. How could I screw that up?”
Dr. Claybourne smiled. “You were probably nervous and might not have followed directions as carefully as you thought you had. It happens all the time. Are you disappointed with the results?” she asked kindly.
“No. It’s—it’s fine. More than fine. Really. I’m very relieved. But if I’m not pregnant, why am I late?”
Dr. Claybourne picked up my chart and looked over my medical history. Although my regular physician is only ten minutes from my home in South Philly, I’d opted out of the neighborhood. Doctor-patient confidentiality aside, news travels fast in that neck of the woods and gossip, even faster.
“I’ve seen the news reports on you, Brandy. It’s not like you’ve had the most relaxing summer, so my best guess is stress. You’re not that late. Go home, try to stay calm and call me next week if you’re not back on schedule.”
In the car on the way home, I was back on schedule.
*****
My dog, Adrian, greeted me at the front door carrying the remains of a Ben and Jerry’s ice cream carton that he’d dug out of the recycle bin. I pried it out of his mouth and checked to see if there was any ice cream left. There wasn’t. Disappointment swept over me. I had no idea I’d wanted ice cream so badly. I settled for a cherry Pixie Stick and sat down at the kitchen table to check my voicemail.
The first was from my mother. She’d called to read me my horoscope, but since she only shares the doom and gloom ones, I figured there was no rush in calling her back. The other message was from my friend, Vince Giancola, down at the D.A.’s office. I emptied the Pixie Stick into my mouth and called him back.
“I arranged that ride-along you wanted,” he began, forgoing the usual amenities. “So, let me guess. You’re reconsidering joining the force.”
No Such Thing as a Lost Cause Page 1