No Such Thing as a Free Lunch (No Such Thing As...: A Brandy Alexander Mystery)

by Shelly Fredman

  “Look, my life has been hell the last few days, and last night it got worse. Do you know the police were at my door until all hours? They got a court order to stop the cremation. Because of you they won’t even let me bury my wife. I just want to talk to you for a few minutes. I won’t stay long,” he added, starting to cry again.

  “Hang on a second,” I said. I ran back into the living room to grab my cell phone and pepper spray out of my bag, and then I opened the storm door and stepped aside.

  “Thank you,” Jeff said softly.

  “I really don’t know what you want from me,” I said, following him into the living room. He sat down on the couch.

  “I want to know why you think I murdered my wife. Haven’t I been through enough already without you spreading your insane ideas about me all around town?”

  I was one hundred percent shocked. The Jersey police had totally blown me off. Even my nearest and dearest friends thought I had a screw loose. I didn’t know why the police suddenly decided to look more closely into Tamra’s death, but it could not have been my doing.

  “Jeff,” I said. “I am so sorry about Tamra. I can’t imagine how you must feel. But I don’t for a minute think Tamra committed suicide. There are things you don’t know that led me to this conclusion. I told the police my theory and what I saw on the day Tamra and I had lunch. I never pointed a finger at you. It didn’t enter my mind to consider you a suspect. They drew their own conclusions about you.”

  “Oh, so you’re just Googling me for the fun of it?”

  “What?” I looked down at my computer screen. “Oh, that. I was just, um…” Oh hell.

  We went into the kitchen and I made us some coffee. Since I didn’t have a lot in the way of breakfast to offer my drop-in guest, I took some frozen Milky Ways out of the freezer and set them on the table. I waited a beat to see if he’d take one and when he didn’t I dove right in. Ah, sugar. The breakfast of champions.

  Jeff stared down at his coffee, his face contorted in unmistakable grief. “I didn’t kill my wife,” he stated flatly. “I loved her. I’m not saying our marriage was perfect. Far from it in fact. I guess you figured out I thought Tamra was having an affair.”

  “Was she?” I asked gently.

  “I don’t know. If she was, I pushed her into it. We’d been fighting a lot lately.”

  “What about?”

  Jeff shrugged. “Nothing and everything. You know how it is. I guess we let our careers become more important than our marriage. The night before she—she died, I asked her if she wanted a divorce. She said no and I believed her.”

  “Then why did you leave? The kid next door said he saw you leaving your home with suitcases.”

  “I was going to a seminar. I never would have left if I’d known she was so unhappy.”

  “So you still think Tamra killed herself.”

  “She’s had some problems with depression in the past. She’d been on anti-depressants. I don’t know. What else could it be? Who would want to kill my Tamra?”

  You mean besides you? For once, my filters were working and the words stayed in my head where they belonged. “Jeff,” I said, instead, “did Tamra ever mention anyone by the name of Richard?”

  He shook his head. “Not that I recall. Why?”

  Ignoring his question I asked, “Did she ever talk to you about stories she was working on?”

  “Sometimes. What are you getting at?”

  I picked up the last Milky Way and popped it in my mouth. “Tamra was known for her hard-hitting stories. She may have made some enemies along the way. What if somebody wanted revenge, or wanted to stop her from exposing critical information about them?” Jeff’s face crumbled and my heart went out to him. “I’m upsetting you. I’m sorry.”

  “You really think she may have been murdered,” he said, as if seriously considering the possibility for the first time.

  “I do.”

  “If the autopsy report proves you right, the police are going to go after me, aren’t they?”

  “They usually look at the spouse, first.”

  “Do you think I’m guilty?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Thank you for your honesty,” he said, standing up. I stood too.

  “Jeff, maybe the police will determine it was a suicide after all. But if not, there may be information on Tamra’s computer at home—clues that could point us in the right direction and take you out of the loop as a suspect. Would you mind if I had a look?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we should let the police handle this.”

  “Think about it,” I said walking him to the door. “And Jeff—”

  He looked up, his eyes welling up with tears. “I’m really sorry.”

  On my way into work, I called Vince. “Have you heard about Tamra Rhineholt?” I asked. “They’ve blocked the cremation, pending an investigation into her death.”

  “You asked me to look into it. I looked into it,” Vince said.

  “Thanks, Vince.”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank DiCarlo.”

  “DiCarlo? What’s Bobby got to do with it?”

  “Bobby called me and we talked. I guess he thought there was something to what you were saying, so we both put in some calls. I think he figured if the police start investigating, you’ll back off. I told him, ‘fat chance.’ Am I right?”

  I wouldn’t dignify that with an answer. Besides, he already knew what it was.

  I walked into work and saw that a crowd had gathered at my desk. That’s so nice. Everyone’s heard about my ordeal and they’re rallying around me. This could be a real bonding opportunity. Art looked over in my direction, his face positively beaming. Suddenly he burst into an off-key rendition of “For She’s A Jolly Good Fellow” and the whole gang joined in. Wow. They’re really going all out.

  I smiled and waved back and was about to walk over when Megan stopped me.

  “Brandy, what are you doing here?”

  “What do you mean? I work here.”

  “But—I thought you were fired.”

  “Fired? Why would you think that?”

  “Well,” Megan blushed, “Lynne said Wendy was coming back to take over her old job as puff piece reporter, so naturally I thought…” Her voice trailed off as a large woman came up behind me, carrying a dessert tray. She was greeted with thunderous applause. “Everyone’s pretty excited,” Megan explained. “Wendy brought cheesecake.”

  Eric stuck his head out of his office and crooked his finger at me, beckoning me forth. “I put you down the hall,” he said, “so you can have more privacy.”

  I looked around at the crowd, which was now descending upon Wendy. “I don’t think that’s a huge problem, Eric. Nobody talks to me anyway.”

  Seeing as I didn’t have a nice slab of cheesecake to slow me down like everyone else did, I was able to get right to work. I picked up the phone and called Graterford State Prison, where David Dwayne Harmon was living out his last days. They confirmed what I’d already suspected. Tamra visited Harmon on three occasions, all within the past six weeks.

  Encouraged, I called Heather at the Department of Records. “Heather,” I said, when she got on the line, “I need a favor. Can you get me a copy of a transcript of a trial that took place four years ago?” The nice thing about Heather is she doesn’t ask a lot of questions. I gave her the case name and she promised to look into it and get back to me.

  While I was waiting, I walked back to the newsroom. Wendy had left the empty cake plate sitting on Tamra’s desk. Tamra’s assistant, Craig, stared down at the plate, looking absolutely miserable. Maybe he didn’t get offered any cheesecake either.

  I wandered over to him and sat down. “Are you okay?” I asked. Tamra had once mentioned to me that Craig was a unique hire, having come to WINN through a program that provides placements for what we used to call “special” students. She liked him a lot and was really protective of him. From the look on his face I’d say the feeling was mutual.


  “I can’t believe this happened,” he said, close to tears. “I’m supposed to clean out her desk, but I don’t know what to do with her stuff.”

  “I’ll do it,” I volunteered. I needed an excuse to go through her desk anyway. “I’m sure her husband will want her personal effects.”

  “Is it true that you were the one who found her?” he blurted out.

  My stomach lurched at the memory. “Yeah,” I admitted. “I can’t get the image out of my mind.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the desk. “Sometimes I say things that are—you know—inappropriate.”

  “Well, I can relate to that,” I told him.

  Craig dropped his voice to a whisper. “I just can’t believe she’d do something like this.” He leaned forward until his head was practically in my lap. Somebody needed to explain to this guy about personal space.

  “Can I ask you something, Randi?”

  I let it slide. He had enough on his mind. “Shoot.” I picked up the cake plate and ran my finger over it, scraping off the little bit of icing that was stuck to the rim.

  “I heard on the news last night that maybe Tamra didn’t kill herself after all.”

  “Yeah, I heard that too.”

  “I don’t mean to bring up bad memories,” he began, “but I’ve gotta know. I mean, you were there. You saw her. Do you think she could have been murdered?” His eyes widened.

  “I don’t know,” I sighed.

  “But why would anyone want to kill her?” he persisted.

  “Craig, you worked closely with Tamra, so you probably knew more about her than I did.” I thought for a minute. “Do you recall her getting any threatening phone calls lately, or possibly hate mail?” Reporters are always targets for disgruntled nut-jobs. It comes with the territory. Craig slowly shook is head. I’d check with Eric. If she lodged a complaint there would be a record of it.

  “Well, did you notice anything different about her, like a change in her personality?”

  “Now that you mention it, she did seem sort of jumpy lately, but I just thought it’s because she wasn’t getting along with her husband. He used to call here all the time wanting to talk to her, and he’d get really upset when she wouldn’t come to the phone. They had a terrible fight one night when he came to pick her up after work. Hey, maybe he killed her.” The relief in his voice was puzzling.

  “Do you remember what the fight was about?”

  “He thought she was cheating on him. He called her awful names.”

  So, Jeff has a temper. I filed this away for later.

  Craig stopped for a minute, thinking. “Randi, what will happen to Mittens if Jeff gets sent to prison? She’s such a sweet cat. I’m worried that she might get sent to an animal shelter and they’ll—you know.” He put his index finger up to his throat and started sawing away, just in case I didn’t know. “I really love Mittens. Do you think they’d let me take her?”

  Boy, Craig sure was in love with that cat. When did he get to know her so well? I decided to ask him.

  “Tamra used to send me to her house sometimes to pick up papers and stuff she forgot to bring to work,” he explained.

  “Oh. Would Jeff let you into the house?”

  “No. He was never there. Tamra gave me the key.”

  So, Craig had a key, which pretty much gave him carte blanche to enter Rhineholt’s house whenever he felt like it. Oh wow… maybe Craig killed Tamra… and then he set up Jeff to take the rap so that he could… gain custody of Mittens? Hmm… this may need some re-thinking.

  “Craig,” I said, moving on, “Tamra was working on a big story before she died, but Eric didn’t know anything about it. Did she ever mention anything to you?”

  “Why do you want to know?” Craig’s voice took on a hint of agitation. His eyes shifted to the floor.

  “I’m just—curious.”

  “Tamra didn’t confide in me. I just ran errands for her, that’s all. I—I’ve got to get back to work.” He slid off the desk and stood up, carefully avoiding eye contact with me. “Thanks for taking care of Tamra’s things for me. She was a nice person. She didn’t deserve to die.”

  I spent my lunch break packing up Tamra’s desk and going over her computer files. I worked uninterrupted, seeing as the gang took Wendy out for tamales. (They all snuck out while I was in the bathroom.) There was nothing in the files on Harmon. I wasn’t surprised. Tamra was too professional to spend company time on a freelance story. What was surprising was Craig’s abrupt reaction when I brought up the Harmon case. My question definitely hit a nerve.

  Heather called, so I left early and drove over to the Department of Records to pick up the court transcripts. I could have asked Bobby or Vince to get them for me, but that would have meant admitting that I was going to pursue the story, and I wasn’t ready for the lecture that would inevitably follow. Eric had enough faith in me to put me on this assignment—alright, Eric thinks with his dick and was trying to get into my pants—but the fact remains, he gave me a chance and I was not about to turn it down.

  It was after 3:00 p.m. and I hadn’t eaten lunch yet, so I stopped by Dunkin’ Donuts for some coffee and an Old Fashioned. I took a seat by the window, pulled out the heavy manila envelop that Heather had given me and began to read. “The State VS David Dwayne Harmon.”

  A minute later I had the uneasy feeling that someone was watching over me. Fighting panic, I slowly raised my head, silently chanting my new mantra. “There’s no one there. It’s just my imagination. There’s no-one—Aahhh!”

  A light tap on my shoulder sent me flying backwards against the window. I hit my head on the glass and knocked over the coffee, splashing waves of wet heat onto my lap.

  I looked up to see Alphonso Jackson grinning down at me, his dark eyes obscured by his ever-present sunglasses. Eyeing the wet spot between my legs he said, “I figured you’d be excited to see me, but I had no idea you’d be that excited.”

  I blushed. Actually, I was that excited. Alphonso works for Nick. I don’t know what his official job title is. Alphonso is a man of many talents—some of them even legal, I think.

  “How’re ya doin,’ sweetcakes?” He pulled out a chair and slung his leg over it, making himself comfortable.

  “Great,” I lied.

  Alphonso cut me a long look. “You tell a lie long enough, you start to believe it.”

  “Well, what’s that supposed to mean?” I huffed.

  “No offense, but you look like you’ve spent the last month in a crypt.”

  Before I could think of a snappy comeback, he stretched out a muscular arm and plucked the transcripts from my hand.

  “Hey, give those back to me.” I tugged at the papers, but it was like a Chihuahua wrestling a pit-bull.

  David Dwayne Harmon,” he read. “That dude is seriously bad news.”

  “You sound like you know him.”

  “Knew him. He was one of those guys made his presence known, y’know what I mean?”

  I nodded. Having read the articles on him, I knew only too well.

  “What’s your interest in him, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  It’s funny. I’d been warned about Nicholas Santiago since the day I met him, and not without good cause. But except for the fact that he’s bound to break my heart, I have absolute trust in him. By extension, I trust the people he trusts. And Nick trusts Alphonso.

  I gave him the Readers’ Digest version of Tamra’s questionable suicide and my suspicion that her death might be tied into a case she was working on. “I haven’t ruled out her husband, either,” I added. “Then there’s this mystery guy named Richard.” I took a large gulp of coffee. “I’m just getting started and I can use all the help I can get, so if you know anything, now would be a good time to jump in.”

  Alphonso stared at me for a minute. At least I think he was staring at me. It was hard to tell with the sunglasses. “When was the last time you slept?” he asked, finally.

&nbs
p; Six weeks ago, wrapped in Nick’s arms. “Alphonso, I’m fine. But I do need to get to work on this, so if you don’t have any useful information—” I finished the rest of the coffee and stood up. He grabbed my arm and pulled me back down.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I don’t know,” I confessed. “I haven’t read the transcripts yet.”

  My cell phone rang and I checked the caller I.D. Janine. I figured I’d ignore it, but when she called back fifteen seconds later I answered, mouthing “one sec” to Alphonso. While he waited, he entertained himself by finishing off my doughnut.

  “Yo, Neenie, I’m kinda in the middle of something—”

  She cut me off with the promise of some major gossip. “You’re going to want to hear this, Bran. I ran into Tina Delvechione at the Reading Terminal today and she said she’s making dinner for Bobby and his little girl.”

  “Get out!”

  “Wait, there’s more. She also said that now that Bobby’s available she’s gonna make a play for him like she should’ve done in high school.”

  “That slut!”

  “And that’s not all. She also said she’s going to the bar mitzvah with Bobby.”

  “DiCarlo asked her out?”

  “No, Bran, listen—”

  “I’ve gotta go.” I snapped the cell phone shut. It rang again immediately, but I didn’t pick up.

  “So, Alphonso,” I said, as my cell went to voice mail, “What are you doing next Saturday night?”

  Oh my God. What was I thinking? I just asked Gangsta Rap’s original poster boy to be my date for my brother’s bar mitzvah. Oh man, I can just see it now. The usher walks him to his seat, hands him a yarmulke and says, “Sir, would you like me to check your Uzi at the door?”

  Okay, so I panicked. I just couldn’t go dateless. Not with Bobby bringing Tina! On the upside, Bobby would be so busy checking Alphonso’s rap sheet he wouldn’t have time to get it on with Tina. And who knows—maybe Alphonso and Tina will hit it off. I guess I was getting a little ahead of myself. The truth is Alphonso never even gave me an answer. He was too busy laughing.