“I’m looking for Tamra. Is she home?”
The kid shrugged. “Dunno. Jeff took off on Saturday morning. I saw him hauling a bunch of suitcases with him. He seemed like he was in a hurry.”
“Did Tamra go with him?”
“I didn’t see her. But if they were going away together,” he mused, “why didn’t they ask me to feed Mittens? Whenever Tamra goes away, she pays me five dollars a day to feed her cat.”
“You wouldn’t by any chance have a spare key, would you?”
“What for?”
Well, you see, as far as I know it’s a felony to break into someone’s home, uninvited. But if you gave me the key, it would knock it down to a misdemeanor.
It was probably just my imagination working overtime, but I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I spoke to Tamra. She’d had a fight with her husband, she’d tried to reach me on Thursday night and now she’s a no-show at work.
Tamra’s a consummate professional. She’d never jeopardize her job over a personal problem. She would have at least called in. Even Eric thought it was weird. I thought about calling the police, but what if it turned out to be nothing and I broadcast her marital problems all over town? The press would have a field day over it.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Ricky.”
“Okay, Ricky, so here’s the thing…”
It took me fifteen minutes and twenty bucks to convince Ricky to let me borrow the key. He relented after I showed him my WINN I.D. card. “Hey, now I know who you are,” he smiled triumphantly. “You’re the lady who does all those crazy things around the city. Remember the time you visited a compost farm? You ate worms just like on Fear Factor. That was so cool.”
Ricky took off with my twenty bucks and returned a few minutes later with Tamra’s key.
“Wait here,” I said, as he followed me to the door. “If Tamra is home, she may not be up for entertaining. She hasn’t been feeling well, and I just want to make sure she’s okay.”
The first thing I noticed when I walked into the house was the stench. Like someone had pooped their pants. I stood just inside the foyer and called Tamra’s name. There was no response, so I ventured further inside. It was dark and I reached along the wall for a light switch. Something brushed past my leg and I screamed, losing my balance and crashing into the wall.
“Are you okay?” Ricky stuck his head inside the door and flipped on the hall light. “Eewww. Somebody forgot to clean out Mittens’ litter box. C’mere, baby.” Ricky reached out and scooped up an orange tabby. It meowed piteously in his arms.
The downstairs looked to be in order; no dead bodies sprawled on the living room rug, no tell tale bloody butcher knife lying about in the kitchen sink. I should have been relieved but I wasn’t.
Ricky came up behind me, cradling the cat in his arms. “Think I’ll feed Mittens,” he said. “I guess Tamra did go away and she just forgot to tell me.”
“I guess so.”
Even as I voiced agreement I knew it wasn’t true. The house was beyond quiet, the air fetid and suffocating. A feeling of dread washed over me, taking up space like a third person in the room. Something was horribly wrong.
My instincts said to grab the cat and the kid and get the hell out of the house, but my conscience wouldn’t allow it. Damn conscience. I instructed Ricky to stay in the kitchen, as I took a few reluctant steps up the stairs. When I got to the top I called her name softly, not really expecting an answer. I flipped on the light and worked my way down the hall.
There was a bedroom on the left. The king sized bed was unmade, the sheets and comforter all twisted together forming a huge lump. I held my breath and poked tentatively at it. Just sheets. I let out my breath and kept moving.
The room next to the master bedroom was set up like an office. Computer, fax machine, shelves crammed with books and framed pictures of Jeff and Tamra in happier times. A radio tuned to a classical station played softly in the background.
Finding nothing out of the ordinary, I moved on to the bathroom, peeked my head in and promptly threw up.
The water in the tub had turned pink, matching the Laura Ashley towels hanging from the rack on the wall. Tamara’s naked body lay beneath the surface. Her head had slipped under the water, her hair a tangled mass of brown seaweed, her face almost unrecognizable; a grotesque, bloated distortion of her former self. It seemed redundant to check to see if she were really dead.
Stepping over my own vomit I braced myself against the doorframe. I tried to keep my voice steady, not wanting to alarm the kid. “Um, Ricky?” I called down the stairs.
“Coming.”
“No, no. Tamra’s here, but she’s not feeling well.” Master of the understatement. “She needs you to take the cat over to your house.”
“Okay. Hey, do you want me to make some chamomile tea? Grandma says it’s a miracle cure.”
Sirens blaring, the police pulled up in front of Tamra’s house. I don’t know why they deemed it necessary to turn them on. At this stage of the game, there was no big rush.
Paramedics zoomed past me, racing up the stairs. Guess my layman’s diagnosis of “dead as a door nail” wasn’t good enough.
“Someone threw up,” one of the cops observed.
“That would be me,” I called from downstairs. “Sorry.”
The house filled to overflowing with police, paramedics and the coroner. Outside, a news van was parked on the lawn. Bad news travels fast. I spied Ricky on the edge of the pathway, talking animatedly to a silver-haired reporter from a rival station.
A young officer approached me, holding a blanket. “Thought you might need this,” he said, wrapping it around me. I had no idea how hard I was shaking until I tried to sit down on the couch and it fell away beneath me. The cop caught me before I hit the floor.
I told him everything I knew about Tamra, which unfortunately wasn’t much. Her husband was out of town. They’d had a fight; she’d tried to call me. She seemed upset. Upset enough to slit her wrists. She had reached out to me in the newsroom. She was my only friend there. And somehow, without meaning to, I’d failed her.
I drove myself home, ignoring some very good advice to ask someone to come pick me up. I was crying so hard I couldn’t see out the windshield. The good news was I hadn’t thought about the whole “somebody’s trying to kill me” scenario in hours. There’s nothing like a decomposing corpse to take your mind off your own troubles.
Eric called on the way home. He’d already heard about Tamra. I half expected him to be mad that I didn’t get an “exclusive.” He was uncharacteristically kind and told me to take the next day off. He didn’t have to tell me twice. I didn’t relish running into Lynne at the office. She probably thinks I handed Tamra the razor, just so I could fill in for her.
I called John from the car and asked him to go over to my house to feed Rocky and Adrian. My head was splitting and I had to get some food in me, seeing as I’d left my lunch at Tamra’s. There’s an Italian restaurant on the corner of 16th and Passyunk Avenue that’s famous for their cannelloni and Caesar’s salads. I had just enough credit on my Visa card to eek out a meal and a tip. I figured after the day I had, I deserved it.
I pulled into the tiny parking lot and squeezed into a spot marked “compact”. As I inched my way out of the car, I caught a glimpse of myself in the side mirror of the Lexus parked next to me. Two sunken eyes peered back at me from under a frame of stringy hair, accentuating the ghostly pallor of my face. I popped a breath mint and was good to go.
Normally I don’t like eating alone in restaurants. I’m afraid people will think I have no friends. But at this point I was too tired to care. I got a table for two in the back and looked around like I was waiting for my date to show up. Okay, so I guess I cared a little. The waiter brought me a basket of bread and asked if I’d like something from the bar. I ordered a beer, thought better of it and made it a scotch. This was, after all, an occasion.
I started drinking before the
meal came. Not one of my brighter ideas. It made me dizzy, and I went in search of the bathroom to splash some cool water on my face. It didn’t really help, so when I spied a familiar figure a moment later, on the other side of the room, I thought it was the Johnnie Walker talking.
The man lounging against the bar looked deceptively civilized, his lean, five-foot ten-inch frame draped in Armani, concealing rock-hard abs and a .38 caliber pistol tucked neatly against the small of his back. He was alone, but he wouldn’t be for long. Woman couldn’t help but flock to him. I shrank back against a potted plant, trying to catch my breath, which had been knocked out of me by the unexpected thrill of seeing him.
Nicholas Santiago was the double whammy—transcendentally beautiful and a certified Bad Boy. It doesn’t get any sexier than that. Nick and I met two months ago, and he’s been bailing me out of trouble ever since. Ironically, the only thing he couldn’t save me from was him.
It’s not like he hadn’t warned me. “I’m not monogamous and I’m not permanent.”
And yet I’d jumped in looking. That night, the earth moved and my heart stopped and by the time it got going again, he’d moved on.
Last we’d spoken was about a month ago. John was there the day Nick had phoned, and he’d captured the aftermath with his Canon. Nick called to say he was going out of town on business. I didn’t ask what kind of business. I’m sure I didn’t want to know. If I believed a quarter of the rumors about Nick, I’d be scared. I believed all of them.
It was good that he was leaving. It would give me time to sort out my feelings. But the truth was I already knew, even if I couldn’t admit it. Only now there was no room for denial. It was written all over my face in the photo. I was in love with the guy. Oh crap.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” A busboy stood beside me, balancing a tray full of dishware in his hands.
“No. Shh. I’m fine.” I angled myself further behind the tree as a woman approached Nick and greeted him, European style, with two kisses, placed on either side of his cheek. Pretentious twit. I’ll bet she’s not even really French. I hate her.
The busboy didn’t move.
“What? You’ve never seen a patron hide behind foliage before? I’m kidding. I lost an earring.” Quickly I bent down to retrieve the non-existent accessory. I couldn’t let him see me. Not like this. If I could just find a way out of here… my meal hasn’t come yet, so it wouldn’t exactly be a “dine and dash”…
“Hello, Angel.”
Uh oh. Could I pretend I didn’t hear him? I guess not. I stood slowly, the scotch on an empty stomach wreaking havoc with my equilibrium. “Oh, Nick, hi. Fancy meeting you here.” Fancy meeting you here? What am I, Amish?
Nick leaned over to give me a friendly peck on the cheek, and I took a wobbly step back, knocking into the busboy. The busboy teetered backwards, flapping his hands in a futile attempt to catch the falling plates. They made a sickening crash when they hit the tile floor.
“Um, sorry.” God, this couldn’t be any more humiliating. Oh wait. It could. Nick’s date joined us behind the tree. Please don’t introduce us, oh please don’t introduce us.
“Brandy, this is Pilar. Pilar, Brandy.”
Note to self: Change name to something exotic. Possibly Tanisha.
We did the whole nice to meet you routine and then mercifully, Pilar remembered a pressing engagement and left. While they were doing their double-cheeked goodbye kiss, I flagged down the waiter and handed him my credit card, asking him to pack my meal to go.
“Do you have to rush off?” Nick turned back to me, his voice soothing, his look penetrating and for a moment I forgot that I’d just seen a co-worker dead—not to mention naked and that I had vomit in my hair.
“Well, uh…”
He guided me towards the bar. “Two coffees, please.”
Oh, I get it. He thinks I’m drunk… which I am. Unhhh! There he goes bailing me out again! Does he have to be so damn gracious about it? And while I was on the subject of rhetorical questions, why was I feeling so angry with him?
The waiter came over and handed me my food.
“Gee, Nick,” I said, backing my way towards the door, “it’s been great seeing you. Well, take care.” I gave him a little salute with my free hand and then wondered why I made such an asinine gesture.
I turned and fled before I could do one more embarrassing thing and ran headlong into the glass door. I bounced off the glass and the cannelloni went flying, along with my pocketbook. My cell phone, pepper spray and stun gun sailed through the air as I hit the ground, my head landing with a clunk on the carpet. Then my phone started to ring. “Would you mind getting that?” I crawled to my knees, waving away help from the Maitre D’.
“Brandy Alexander’s phone,” Nick announced.
“Who is this?” I could hear the voice on the other end and it was not a happy one.
Nick turned the phone around and checked the caller I.D. “Detective DiCarlo. What a pleasant surprise. This is Nick Santiago.”
I scrambled over to the phone and grabbed it out of Nick’s hand. He smiled benignly as I said hello into the receiver.
“What’s he doing answering your phone?” Bobby hissed. Bobby wasn’t exactly a fan.
“Long story—and none of your business,” I added. I’d had about as much grief as I could take for one day.
“None of my business? After what you put me through the other night?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, on the verge of a major meltdown. “There’s been another—” I hesitated—“development.”
“Yeah?” His voice softened. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
“Eventually,” I sighed. “Just not now. Did you ever find out anything conclusive about my car brakes?”
“No reports of other cars being tampered with,” Bobby said. “No suspicious people spotted in the neighborhood except for that report from Heather, and Snake swears he did a thorough job on the brakes.” Somebody had gone to an awful lot of trouble to silence the wrong person.
Nick reached out a hand to help me up. It was warm and reassuring and I wanted to hold it forever. His expression was that of mild curiosity, but I knew him well enough not to take it at face value. “When did you start packing heat?” he asked, holding the stun gun in his other hand.
“What? Oh. Long story.”
“And none of my business?” he asked, handing me back the gun.
“It’s really not that interesting.”
“Try me.”
I was sorely tempted to unburden the whole sorry mess on Nick, from my sleepless nights to the living nightmare of Tamra’s suicide and the misguided attempts on my life. But something stopped me. And the truth is I had no idea in the world what it was.
“Come on,” he said, finally, “I’ll take you home.”
“I don’t need a ride, thanks. I have my car.”
“And I have your keys.” He held them up for me to see, leaving no room for argument.
I called Fran the next day to fill her in on everything that had happened—not because I wanted her to worry—I just knew she’d be furious with me if she found out from someone else. Franny thinks that now that she’s pregnant she misses out on all the fun.
We met at Shorty’s Rib House, the carnivore’s equivalent to Disneyland. She said the baby needed the meat and I felt silly arguing with a six-month-old fetus, so I went along for the ride. I didn’t think my stomach could take another jolt to its system, so I ordered the House Salad—iceberg lettuce with a radish on the side. Yum.
“So then what happened?” Franny asked, through a mouthful of barbequed beef ribs, bits of which were stuck solidly between her teeth.
“Nothing. I fell asleep thirty seconds after I got in the car. I can only hope I didn’t snore.”
“Did he kiss you goodbye?”
“No! We barely said two words to each other. And that’s another thing. He’s been back in town for God knows how long and he never even called me. I’m telling you, Fr
an. That night I spent with Nick was a fluke. He is so not interested.”
“Don’t be so sure.” Franny gnawed thoughtfully on a bone. I could see the gears in her keen, analytical mind working overtime.
“What do you mean?” I asked, trying not to sound too excited and failing miserably.
“Well, Nick doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who waits for a woman to make up her mind—and let’s face it, Bran, you’re still emotionally joined at the hip with Bobby. I think you and DiCarlo should just do it and get it over with,” she decided. “See if the old spark is still there.”
“Jesus, Franny,” I yelled, and a piece of lettuce flew out of my mouth and landed on her side of the table. “If I wanted that kind of advice I’d be sitting here watching Janine chow down half a cow instead of you.”
“I hit a nerve, huh?” she grinned.
“No.” Yes. “And anyway,” I went on, lowering my voice to barely a whisper, “there’s something a little more pressing I wanted to talk to you about.”
Fran looked at her watch. “Better make it quick. I’m due back at the office in twenty minutes.”
I took a deep breath. “It’s about Tamra,” I announced. “I think she was murdered.”
I had plenty of time to think about it too, seeing as I was up all night again, so it gave me something new to dwell on besides where Bobby and I were headed and who Nick was sleeping with when he wasn’t busy selling arms to third world nations or whatever probably illegal thing he did for a living.
The police were handling it as a routine suicide. As if deciding to end one’s own life could ever be considered routine. But when I really thought about it, things didn’t add up. Tamra just didn’t appear all that depressed. Certainly, she wasn’t thrilled the day her husband showed up at the restaurant, but she seemed more pissed off than suicidal. And she’d been so excited about a story she had been working on. I couldn’t imagine her checking out when her investigation was going so well.
I called Detectives Moody and Hahn, the cops in charge of the case, with my theory about how Tamra had really died. I thought maybe they’d invite me to come in so we could pool our information, but all they’d said was thank you and they thought they could handle it from here. “But what about her husband?” I’d persisted. “Have you checked out his alibi? And what about a suicide note? Isn’t it standard practice to leave some kind of message behind, explaining why they didn’t want to live anymore? I mean, come on, people, what was her motivation?”
No Such Thing as a Free Lunch (No Such Thing As...: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) Page 6