“Are you all right?”
“Yeah, sure, fine,” she said. She went into one of the stalls and closed the door.
I felt bad leaving her when she was obviously upset, but I didn’t want to intrude, so I walked out of the bathroom, only to return a minute later to retrieve my coat from the lounge. Tamra was still inside the stall and she was crying.
“Can we please talk about this later?” I heard her say. There was a pause, then, “Richard, I’m at work for God’s sake.” Richard? Who the hell is Richard?
I heard the door unlatch so I grabbed my coat and tiptoed out of the lounge.
By the time we finished shooting promos for the station it was after seven p.m. and pitch dark outside. I ran to my car, looking over my shoulder every step of the way, convincing myself it was just a necessary precaution in this day and age, rather than the paranoid antics of a woman in dire need of therapy.
I drive a nineteen seventy-two metallic blue classic Mercedes sports car. Technically, it’s on loan from my brother, but I remind him that possession is nine tenths of the law. The funny thing is Paul would hand over the pink slip in a second if I really wanted him to. He’s the sweetest guy ever.
I reached the car and fumbled for my keys, cursing the enormous satchel I cart around with me. (I figure you never know when you’re going to need a band-aid or a screwdriver or a can of creamed corn.) As I rooted through my bag, a shadow passed in the dim light of the parking lot and I froze. Beads of sweat popped out on my forehead as I willed myself to stay calm. The shadow moved closer and, instinctively, I spun around, swinging my pocketbook for all its worth. It met with something hard, and a hand reached out to grab me.
“Help,” I screamed, panic overtaking me.
“Jesus, Brandy, what’d you do that for?”
I looked up to see a six foot one inch Irish-Italian God in a leather motorcycle jacket and jeans holding the side of his head, where I’d clipped him with the creamed corn. Oh great. I’d just decked Robert Anthony DiCarlo, Philadelphia homicide detective and former love of my life. My panic receded, replaced by a wave of pleasure in the pit of my stomach and a touch of remorse over his injury. I decided to go on the offense.
“What’s the big idea sneaking up on me like that, Bobby?”
“Ya think you might’ve overreacted just a little?” he asked, rubbing his temple.
“A girl can’t be too careful. Hey, what are you doing here? I thought you were in Disney World.”
About a month ago, Bobby’s wife, Marie, went off the deep end and was deported back to her homeland of Guatemala, leaving him with full custody of their two-year-old daughter, Sophia. Marie’s exit was no big loss; he was never all that attached to her in the first place, (apparently her homicidal tendencies were a bit of a turn-off) but he would do anything in the world for his little girl.
After Marie was sent packing, Bobby took a leave of absence from work so that he could concentrate on helping Sophia cope with the loss of her mother. I guess he thought a couple of weeks in Florida, in the company of a big rodent and a little mermaid would help take her mind off things—and if all else failed, there were always the ’gator farms.
“Got back yesterday afternoon.” Bobby looked me up and down, his gaze resting on my torn pant leg and battered coat. He leaned over me, grinning as he swept my bangs out of my eyes. “Have you been getting into fights with the other kids at work? How many times do I gotta tell you to play nice?”
I gave his hand a half-hearted slap. “Very funny. And don’t change the subject. Why are you lurking around in the parking lot of my place of employment? Oh no,” I said, suddenly panicked. “Nobody’s hurt, are they?” My ability to leap to the worst possible conclusion is world class.
“No. Everything’s fine. I was on my way home and I saw Paul’s car in the lot. Sophia’s staying with Eddie’s mom tonight, so I thought I’d see what you were up to.” Eddie is Bobby’s friend and my best friend, Franny’s new husband. He is an extraordinarily nice guy with a really big mouth.
“Okay, I see what’s going on here. Franny told Eddie I’m afraid to be alone and Eddie told you. And now you think you have to baby-sit me. Well, I’ve got a newsflash, DiCarlo. I’m fine!”
Bobby puffed out his cheeks, expelling a breath of air. “You really need to get more sleep. You’re cranky.”
Unhhh! It’s not like the idea of spending time alone with Bobby didn’t appeal to me. The truth was it appealed to me way too much. Bobby and I had a ten-year history together. It’s been four years since we’d broken up, but the physical and emotional ties run deep. They’d been buried by a lot of anger on my part, but we’d made peace with that, and now with Marie out of the picture, it would be so easy to fall back into old patterns. I’d told him I thought we needed time to be friends again, without the complications of sex. Sensibly, Bobby had agreed with me. Only the predatory look in his eye begged to differ.
I heard voices in the parking lot and noticed Tamra a few lanes over, walking towards her car. She was being escorted by Nelson, one of the night security guards. I called out to her and she waved, but she seemed distracted and tense. She looked about as happy to be going home to Jeff as I was, going home to an empty house.
“Well?” Bobby said. You want company or not?”
“Not,” I lied.
“Suit yourself.” He pulled open the driver’s side door and watched me slide into the seat. “You’re really missing out,” he said, the grin on his face telling me he knew I wanted him bad.
“Get over yourself, hotshot.” I threw the car in reverse and peeled out of there before I had a chance to change my mind.
Traffic was backed up on Broad Street. I turned on the radio and caught the tail end of the news. A murder in the Bella Vista district, a robbery at gun point at an ATM on Rising Sun Avenue. City Hall is bracing for a protest next month over the scheduled execution of some guy convicted of murdering a co-ed, gas prices are up and the Flyers won in overtime.
At the next red light I dug in my bag, pulled out my phone and punched speed dial for my friend Johnny Marchiano. John is in-between boyfriends, so I was hoping he’d be free for dinner and a movie at my house.
“Yo, Sunshine, what’s up?”
I ran the plan by him, enticing him with promises of take-out from Woo Chin’s.
“Sorry, dollface. I’ve got plans for tonight.”
“What kind of plans?”
John hesitated a beat. “A party.”
“Can I come?”
“No.”
“Oh, fine.”
Next, I called Franny who, according to Eddie, was in the middle of a major hormonal meltdown and was refusing to come out of the bathroom. Franny is pregnant and her mood swings are legendary. I then called Janine, Fran’s twin sister and alter ego.
“Chinese gives me a rash.”
“Since when?”
“I’ve got a headache.”
“God, Janine, if you don’t want to come over, just say so.”
“I’m washing my hair.”
My uncle Frankie didn’t get off from work until nine. He’s the hunky manager of the South Street Boxing Gym and the reason half the female population in town has signed up for private boxing lessons. His girlfriend, Carla, who manages a beauty shop, was busy too; she was giving herself a bikini wax.
As I pulled up in front of my house, I thought about asking my geriatric next door neighbor, Mrs. Gentile, in for a couple of brewskis, but she keeps calling Animal Control on me because my dog pees on her azalea bush, and anyway she’s not all that much fun.
My neighborhood is made up of predominantly working-class Italian families with some Irish and a few other ethnic groups thrown in for good measure. My house is at the end of a row of small, attached homes, which made it handy for me when I was a teenager, to sneak out my bedroom window and climb down the trellis to meet Bobby.
I could hear my dog, Adrian, barking on the other side of the door. Adrian is a twenty-pound fur ball with a water f
ountain tail and an appetite for basically anything that’s not nailed down. I recently bought a new couch, which started out with four legs and now has three and a half. Ah, the joys of motherhood.
John had come by earlier in the afternoon to walk and feed Adrian, but it’s still a long day for the little guy. He pounced on me the second I opened the door. In his mouth was a half chewed oven mitt. The other half was under the dining room table. “Looks like you’ve already had your dinner,” I told him.
Adrian padded after me as I turned on all the lights and put the television on for comfort. I have a theory that nothing awful can happen when one is watching Nick at Nite. The Cosby Show was on. Rudy watched a scary movie and now she’s afraid of the dark. Welcome to my world, kid.
I was trying to decide between mac n cheese and a grilled hotdog for dinner, when the phone rang. I ran to the kitchen to answer it, but the caller had already hung up. A sick feeling surged in the pit of my stomach. The last time that happened, someone left a severed goat’s head on my doorstep. Well, what are the odds of that happening again?
Two seconds later the doorbell rang. I fought the urge to throw up and inched over to the hallway. “Who is it?” I asked, standing on tiptoe to peer out the spyglass.
“Surprise!”
Relief and gratitude flooded through me as I yanked open the door. Standing on the top step was John, all five feet, three inches of him. Crowded in next to him were Franny, Janine and Carla. Carla held a casserole dish in her manicured hands. Her lacquered beehive shot straight up from her head, rivaling Marge Simpson’s for world’s tallest protein-based structure. Uncle Frankie stood on the next step down, and lagging a few feet behind him was Bobby, carrying a couple of six-packs of Rolling Rock and a bottle of black cherry soda. Janine was toting a large shopping bag filled with brightly wrapped packages.
“What’s all this?” I asked, stepping aside as everyone trooped in. Adrian began to bark and run around in delighted circles, while my gray and white kitten, Rocky, hid behind the china cabinet, licking the paste off the peeling wallpaper.
“Consider it a housewarming party,” Franny announced.
“Oh, goody. What’s the theme?” I was thinking I could really use a new can opener. The other one broke when I tried to open a quart of paint with it. Actually, it had done the trick, but now everything tastes like enamel.
“Home security,” Bobby said, sitting down on the couch. He popped a beer and stuck his boot-clad feet up on the coffee table, settling in.
“Yeah,” Carla added. “Since you won’t admit you’ve been afraid to stay here alone, we decided to get you things to make you feel safer.”
I rolled my eyes in a big show of denial, but it was really to keep from crying. These were the people who loved me and they showed me on a daily basis.
“Paul says he’s sorry to miss the party, but he had to go see the rabbi tonight,” Frankie said. “I think he’s really nervous about getting up in front of all those people.” My brother has a little problem with stuttering. He’s usually okay, but once he gets rolling, he sounds like an AK-47.
Carla wrestled the half -an -oven -mitt away from Adrian and headed for the kitchen with the casserole dish, while I set about trying to find enough forks and plates. John came up behind me, throwing a skinny arm around my shoulder. “You okay?” he asked quietly.
I looked around at my house filled with friends. “I am now.”
The phone rang in the middle of dinner and I let the answering machine pick it up. There’s not a whole lot that can separate me from a plate of my uncle’s homemade lasagna.
After we ate, everyone settled on the couch to watch me open up my gifts. Janine bought me some pepper spray and Franny got me a stun gun that was shaped like a cell phone. Then Uncle Frankie started playing with it and almost zapped himself, so Carla made him put it away. Johnny got me a subscription to “Guns and Ammo,” but judging by the male models on the cover, I think it was more of a present for him than for me.
“Mind if I borrow that when you’re done?” he asked, confirming my suspicions.
Paul, Carla and Frankie chipped in for an alarm system for the house and Bobby arranged for some target practice over at the police station. “I’m not advocating that you get a gun,” he said. “I know they freak you out, and frankly, I don’t think it’s a great idea for the general public to be armed. But I want you to know what to do, in case you’re ever in a situation where you need to use one.”
I nodded, painfully aware that the situation had already come up more than once.
At around eleven p.m. everyone began shuffling towards the door. Bobby remained rooted to the couch, legs still stretched out on the coffee table, draining his beer. His smoky blue eyes were closed, his head resting against the back cushions.
“You coming, DiCarlo?” There was a faint warning tone in my uncle’s voice, and it made me smile inwardly.
As a kid, Bobby DiCarlo was trouble. Orphaned at sixteen, with no outlet for his rage and sadness, he’d found his way to the South Street Gym, where Frankie took him under his wing. He taught him how to box, gave him focus. With all of his pent up anger, Bobby easily could have chosen the wrong side of the law. But Frankie’s guidance helped keep him on track. He loved Bobby like a little brother—but he loved me more. My uncle knew our history and he wasn’t sure I was emotionally ready for a repeat performance. And to be honest, neither was I.
Bobby opened his eyes, looking slightly amused. “Thought I’d help Brandy clean up.” Getting off the couch, he gathered up the remaining bottles and glasses and took them to the kitchen.
“Yo, midget brat,” my uncle said, looking down at me fondly, “try and get some rest tonight. You’re gonna need your strength when your mother arrives.” Oy.
Bobby was pressed up against the sink, washing some plates. He’d rolled up his sleeves, exposing strong forearms, the right one newly tattooed. I walked over and touched his arm lightly, turning it over to read the inscription inside a small red heart. Sophia.
“How’s she doing?” I asked. Stupid question considering she’s two and just lost her mother a little over a month ago.
Bobby frowned and turned off the water. “She hasn’t asked about Marie lately. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. I’m taking her to counseling. I think it’s important for a person to deal with their problems,” he added pointedly. “Don’t you?”
“Couldn’t agree more,” I said, being purposely obtuse.
DiCarlo studied me, concern written all over his face. “Bran, Franny says you’re—”
I cut him off. “Franny says she’s going to divorce Eddie and run off to Tahiti with a Colin Farrel look-alike she met at the Acme the other day. You can’t believe everything Fran says right now. It’s the hormones talking.”
He gave me an exaggerated eye roll. “Anyone ever tell you that you have a real stubborn streak?”
Yes. Constantly. “No. Never. You’re the only one.”
Bobby snorted, but he let it drop and we finished up the dishes in companionable silence.
“Thanks for helping out,” I said a little while later as I walked him to the door.
“I’ll call you about target practice,” he said, shrugging into his jacket. He bent down and grazed my cheek with his lips. “Sleep tight.”
I nodded, ignoring the rising skitter in my stomach as his skin brushed against mine. Damn hormones!
I closed and double-locked the door and then headed back into the kitchen to turn off the light, when I remembered the message on the answer machine. I walked over to the phone and hit play.
“Brandy, it’s Tamra.” Her voice was steady, but there was a quality I couldn’t quite put my finger on. “I’m sorry about what happened at lunch today. I owe you one. Listen, I really need to talk to you. Call me in the morning.” I hit play again, listening, this time, for what she didn’t say. I recognized that quality in her voice now. I knew it only too well. It was fear.
D
amn. I really didn’t need something new to obsess over just before going to bed. I grabbed a pack of TastyKakes out of the cupboard and popped one in my mouth while I listened to the message again. Yep, fear. Well, she’d had that fight with her husband today. Maybe he’d threatened her somehow. Or—ooh—Nelson, the security guard was looking at her kinda weird. Maybe he came on to her and she needs me as a witness for the sexual harassment suit she planned to file. Okay, if it were really something bad, she wouldn’t be calling me. I barely know the woman. The thought calmed me a little.
I took the rest of the pack of chocolate cupcakes upstairs with me and got ready for bed. Adrian followed me into the bathroom while I brushed and flossed my teeth. As I stood before the mirror, I did a quick appraisal of the face staring back at me. A month of nightmares had really taken its toll. If the circles under my eyes got any darker, I’d have to hire a special effects artist to cover them. No wonder my friends were worried about me.
Back in my bedroom, I turned on the overhead light and crawled into bed. Adrian climbed on top and began rooting around for TastyKake crumbs. Rocky crawled out from under the chair, dragging what looked like the ear off my Winnie the Pooh bear in her mouth. She leaped up onto the bed and snuggled in next to me. I closed my eyes and thought about Bobby. He looked good tonight. Hah. Who am I kidding? He always looks good. This wasn’t helping.
My thoughts drifted back to Tamra. I’m probably jumping to ridiculous conclusions, and everything is fine between her and her husband. So they’d had a little fight. I’m sure it’s all forgotten by now. In the mean time, I’m laying here worried sick about her, with an earless Winnie the Pooh and a cat that eats wallpaper for company, while she’s no doubt having wild, passionate make-up sex with Jeff. Boy, I’m really beginning to resent ol’ Tamra. I rolled over on my side and fell into a fitful sleep.
Chapter Two
I woke up at five a.m. feeling tired and anxious, which was a step up from my usual state of “exhausted and terror-stricken.” I was scheduled to do some voiceover and I didn’t have to be at the studio until late afternoon, so I forced myself to stay in bed, at least until the sun came up. I passed the time thinking of` clever retorts I could have said to Lynne Schaffer over the corndog debacle. I’m always brilliant well after the fact.
No Such Thing as a Free Lunch (No Such Thing As...: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) Page 2