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

by Shelly Fredman

  I decided to make a quick run to the Acme before I headed home. My parents would be here any day now, and all I had in the house to eat was a bag of coconut flakes for those Christmas cookies I never got around to baking because I ate all the raw cookie dough.

  As I cruised down Broad Street, I thought about Alphonso’s parting words. “Call Santiago. He knows everything that happens on the street. I’m sure he can get you the information you need.”

  I was sure he could too. So why was I so reluctant to call him?

  “Because he hasn’t called you,” said a little voice inside my head.

  “Pride goeth before a fall,” chirped a new little voice.

  “Oh shut up,” replied the first one. “If she calls him she’ll look desperate.”

  “If she calls him, she’ll get the help she needs with her investigation. And maybe find true love!”

  “Yeah, right,” I said, jumping into the fray, “like that’s gonna happen. Look, you guys, I know Nick cares for me, but he’s made it clear that he’s not looking for emotional attachments. I don’t know if he’s capable of loving anyone.”

  Okay, it’s one thing to talk this through with my dog and cat. They only want the best for me. But having a three-way conversation with imaginary people is just plain silly—not to mention a little frightening.

  When I got home I made a quick dinner of tomato soup and Ritz crackers and then I settled in on the couch with the box of stuff I’d taken off Tamra’s desk. Earlier in the day I’d pocketed a small notebook I’d found stuck between the pages of an old U.S.A. Today that was stuffed in the back of her drawer. I took it out and thumbed through it.

  Most of the pages had been torn out. The remaining few were filled with scribbled notes. Two in particular stood out—“background check on A.B. Mitchell. Where is he now?” and “Call K. Morgan to confirm appt.” Tamra had doodled Laura Stewart’s name right next to it, with circles and arrows pointing to the phone number. The appointment was set for two days ago, an appointment she never got to keep.

  A.B. Mitchell sounded familiar. “Anthony,” I remembered. Anthony “Boner” Mitchell. He was mentioned in one of the old newspaper articles I’d read about the trial. Mitchell was a friend of Harmon’s who’d testified that Harmon bragged to him about murdering Laura. It was Mitchell’s testimony that sealed the deal for the prosecution. Apparently, Tamra had been looking for him. I wondered if she found him.

  K. Morgan didn’t ring any bells, so I picked up the phone and dialed the number in the notebook. A machine picked up. The voice was female, young, around my age. “This is Kylie. Please leave a message.” I left my name and number and said I was a colleague of Tamra’s and I asked her to call me. I still had the phone in my hand when it rang again.

  “Yo.” It was Bobby. I was dying to ask him about Tina, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of thinking I was jealous, which I most certainly was not!

  “Hey.” I said. “I was going to call you. Vince told me what you did. Thanks for putting pressure on the Jersey police. I heard on the news they’re doing an autopsy.”

  “Yeah, it only made sense. And now that they’re involved, you can finally back off.”

  “Yeah,” I lied.

  “Listen, I thought I’d come over.”

  Panic washed over me like a tidal wave over the Titanic. “Here? Now? Why?”

  I still hadn’t processed last night’s game of tonsil hockey and to tell the truth, I was scared to be alone with him. Franny was right. I had some unresolved issues with Bobby, but this was no time to resolve them. It was much too soon. Only I didn’t think common sense was any match for the hormonal surge I felt at the moment.

  “I just want to see you,” he said, smelling my fear and pouncing on it. “Do I need a reason?”

  “Um, now isn’t a good time. I’m, uh, I’m having a party. The gang from work’s here—Hey, buddy,” I yelled across an empty living room, “use a coaster. That’s what they’re there for. Listen Bobby, I’ve gotta go. Juan’s making Margaritas.” I hung up the phone and the doorbell rang.

  I stood on tiptoe and peeked through the spy hole. Bobby grinned back at me.

  I sighed. “Go away.”

  His grin got wider. “Ah, come on, let me in. Please?” Now the dimples were showing and I knew I was toast. I opened the door.

  Rocky ran up to Bobby and began sniffing his shoe. He scooped her up in his arms and petted her with strong, sure hands. She purred with deep contentment. Shit. I’m jealous of my cat.

  “Shouldn’t you be home with Sophia?” I asked.

  “I had the day off and we spent the whole day together. She’s over at Fran and Eddie’s for the night. They wanted to see what they’re in for when their kid shows up.”

  He put Rocky down and unzipped his leather jacket and extracted a small bouquet of wild flowers. He handed them to me.

  “What’s with the flowers?” I asked.

  “I’m wooing you.”

  “You’re ‘wooing’ me?” I went into the kitchen to find an empty spaghetti sauce jar to put them in.

  “Yeah,” he said, following me. “How am I doin’?”

  “What makes you think I want to be wooed?”

  I filled the jar with water and stuck the flowers in it. Then I picked it up and carried it back into the living room. I was about to set it down on the coffee table when Bobby came up behind me and worked his hands around my waist.

  “Oh, you want to be wooed all right,” he said, nuzzling my neck.

  “Get away,” I breathed. “I have work to do.”

  He continued to nuzzle, brushing soft lips against my skin. “You like this.”

  “I do not.”

  “Then why are your nipples getting hard?”

  “Shut up. They are not!” Oh God, they are! “Bobby—”

  “Shh.” He gently turned me around and pulled the jar out of my hands, setting it on the table. Then he lowered his head and lifted my chin until our mouths were a hair’s breath apart.

  “Listen,” I croaked, struggling to be the voice of reason, “I don’t think—”

  “Good idea,” he whispered. “Don’t think.” And his mouth came crashing down on mine. Oh boy!

  Chapter Seven

  We were just getting warmed up when the phone rang again. Damnit.

  “Don’t answer it,” Bobby grunted.

  We’d moved to the couch, displacing Rocky and Adrian, who had been curled up together on top of the afghan. Bobby flopped down on the cushions, pulling me along with him until we were lying side by side. At the moment he had his hand under my shirt and was making a one-handed attempt to unfasten my bra. I wasn’t about to stop him, but I wasn’t going to help him either. That way, when I recounted it later for Fran and Janine I could claim at least partial innocence.

  The phone kept on ringing, and I was about to throw it against the wall when I remembered about Kylie. “I’ve got to get this,” I groaned. “It might be work.” I pushed against Bobby’s chest and rolled him off the couch. He sprawled on the floor, eyes closed, breathing deeply, his lips moving in a silent count to ten. It took every ounce of strength I had to keep from joining him on the floor.

  “Hello?” I said into the phone.

  “Brandy, this is Kylie Morgan. You left me a message?”

  “Oh, hi,” I said, tucking in my shirt. “Thanks for calling back. Um, could you hang on for just a second?” I held my hand over the receiver. “Bobby, I’ve got to get some papers from upstairs. I’ll be right back.”

  I dashed up the steps two at a time. Now was not the time to tell him I was assigned to this investigation. I thought about when would be a good time. Possibly never.

  I took the call in my bedroom. Kylie confirmed that she did have an appointment with Tamra to talk about her friendship with Laura Stewart and her recollections of her. She agreed to meet with me the following day.

  I hung up the phone, walked into the hallway and ran smack into Bobby. “Hi,” he gr
inned, backing me into the bedroom. “Now, where were we?”

  “Whoa! We weren’t there,” I said, yanking his hand out of the waistband of my pants.

  “But that’s where I want to be.” His voice had gone all husky and serious and it went straight to the pit of my stomach. He put his arms around me and I could feel how serious he was through the crotch of his jeans.

  “I’ve got to be honest with you, sweetheart, except for Sophia, my life has been shit these past few years.” Before I could say anything he added, “I did it to myself, I know. And I screwed you over in the process. But the way I look at it, we’ve got a chance to start over. And this,” he said, pulling me towards him, “would be an excellent place to start.”

  He began a slow assault on my neck; open-mouthed kisses that left me breathless and wanting a whole lot more. I strained against him and we fell back onto the bed. Soon, my shirt found its way to the floor and Bobby’s wasn’t far behind. “You go girl,” said the little voice in my head, and I was about to do just that, when another voice, louder and oh so familiar began calling my name.

  “Brandy, we’re heeerre!”

  “Holy shit, it’s my mother!”

  I bolted upright, grabbed my shirt and began a frantic search for my bra.

  “How the hell did they get into the house?” Bobby barked, scrambling around for his pants.

  “Shhh! They’ll hear you. I left a key under the mat, in case I wasn’t home. They’re not supposed to be here until tomorrow!”

  “Brandy, are you up there?”

  I stuck my head out into the hall. “Hey, you’re here! Great! Give me a second and I’ll be right down.” I turned to Bobby. “You’ve got to get out of here!”

  “Whadya think I’m tryin’ to do?” He grabbed his shirt off the floor, yanked it over his head and started for the door.

  I hauled him back inside the bedroom. “You can’t go out that way. They’ll see you.”

  Bobby sank back down on the bed. “Well, what do you expect me to do? Climb down the trellis?”

  I walked over to the window and opened it.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Hey, it was good enough for you twelve years ago…”

  “Jesus, Brandy, we were just kids then. We’re adults now. We’re entitled to do… what adults do.”

  “Brandy Renee!” The voice was coming closer.

  Bobby leaped up and bolted towards the window. “Man, I forgot one thing,” he whispered.

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “Your mom’s scary.” He gave me a quick kiss and climbed out the window.

  Bobby was wrong. He’d forgotten two things and my mother was holding them in her hand. “Whose boots are these?” she asked, entering my bedroom.

  “Mom!” I said, throwing my arms around her. “I’m so glad to see you. Those are Paul’s. You know how forgetful he is. Where’s dad?” I took the shoes from her and set them on the floor. “You must be exhausted.” I turned her around and directed her to the top of the stairs. “I’ll be down in a minute and we’ll have a nice long chat. ’k?”

  I shut the door, ran to the window and looked out. Bobby was standing on the sidewalk, looking up at my bedroom window. He was barefoot. I opened the window and tossed out his boots, accidentally hitting him in the head. I winced.

  “Brandy,” my mother said through the closed door. “Next time tell Bobby to use the front door like a normal person. You aren’t kids anymore.”

  It was like they’d never left. Within a half hour of their arrival, my dad was sitting on the couch, remote in hand, alternating between the History Channel and the Food Network (my dad has a little crush on Rachel Ray). My mother had commandeered the kitchen and was preparing her “famous Spaghetti Marinara” for Saturday night’s dinner. I tried to warn her that Rocky has a “thing” about red sauce and if she didn’t keep an eye on her, the secret ingredient in the meal would likely end up being cat fur. She told me to “get the damn cat” off her counter and then she sent me to my room. (Swear to God.)

  Kylie Morgan sat at a table in the back room of the Country Club Restaurant, located in the Northeast section of the city. I recognized her immediately by her description. Long blond hair pulled back in a pony tail, wearing a navy blue hooded sweatshirt with the name of her school emblazoned on the front. She was a grad student at Drexel University, working part time at a senior center on Cottman Avenue.

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me,” I said, after the introductions had been made.

  “Oh, no problem. Actually, I was curious,” Kylie admitted. “When Ms. Rhineholt contacted me, I’d told her I didn’t know Laura all that well. I don’t think anyone did. She said she wanted to meet with me anyway; that I might recall something that, at the time, I was maybe too traumatized to think about. I was there the night Laura met that guy at the bar,” she clarified. She lowered her eyes, remembering. “We had to talk her into coming out with us. She seemed so tightly wound all the time. We thought she could use a little fun in her life, you know? Afterwards, we all felt so responsible… I just don’t know what I could tell Ms. Rhineholt—or you—that I didn’t already tell the police.”

  I studied her a minute. “You said you were curious. About what?”

  “Well, two things really.” Kylie let out a nervous laugh. “It seemed so obvious that David Dwayne Harmon is guilty. I mean all that evidence. And he had a history of violence…” I was very familiar with Harmon’s background. I’d been up until four in the morning going over the transcripts of the trial. He was not a nice guy by anyone’s standards. “So if a jury of his peers convicted him,” Kylie continued, “why would Ms. Rhineholt think he might be innocent?”

  So that was it. Tamra must have somehow become convinced that the state had prosecuted the wrong person. Holy cow. The guy is set to fry in less than a month. Oh man, what could Tamra possibly have discovered that would help prove Harmon’s innocence?

  “You said there were two things you were curious about,” I reminded Kylie. “What was the other one?”

  “Well, I know this is none of my business” she blushed, “but I was wondering. What would make a successful person like Tamra Rhineholt want to kill herself?”

  And that’s the million dollar question.

  Country Club Restaurant is famous for their cheesecakes. They’re way better than Wendy’s, I’m sure of it, so I got a whole one to go. It helped to soften the blow of Kylie not being a whole lot of help.

  “Kylie,” I said, taking one last stab at it as we stood in the parking lot, “I know you’d said Laura was difficult to get to know. That she kept to herself, didn’t share her personal life with you. But there must be something. No matter how insignificant it seemed at the time.”

  Kylie squinted her eyes at the harsh winter sunlight, thinking. “I don’t know if this is what you’re looking for, but I remember giving Laura a ride home from school one day. We were riding around near down town, and you know the big Lutheran church at the corner of 17th and Maple?” I nodded. “Well, there’s this small, red brick apartment building right next door to it, and as we’re driving by, Laura goes, “That’s my shrink’s building. Dr. Applebaum.”

  “Her shrink? Are you sure?” There was no record in the transcripts of Laura going to a therapist, and I was pretty sure that in a murder trial the defense would be interested in that bit of information.

  “I’m sure,” said Kylie, shaking her blond ponytail.

  “Did you mention it to the police?”

  “No. It was a fleeting remark. Right after she’d said it, she’d changed the subject really quickly, like she was sorry she’d let it slip out. I—I didn’t think it was anything worth mentioning.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said, feeling sorry for her. She felt guilty enough already.

  So, unbeknownst to the general public, Laura Stewart was seeing a therapist. I wondered why he hadn’t come forward after she was killed. Well, I was going to find out.
<
br />   I sat in the car and punched in 411 on the cell phone. There was no listing for a Dr. Applebaum on Maple, however, the directory showed one for a Peter Applebaum. I jotted down the number and was about to call him when I thought better of it and decided to check it out in person. One of the advantages of being on television is people tend to feel like they know you and are more likely to open up.

  On the way over I rehearsed what I was going to say. What with doctor-patient confidentiality and all, I didn’t know how much Dr. Applebaum would be willing to share. This was just a shot in the dark anyway. For all I knew, Laura was a bed-wetter or addicted to on-line shopping. Not exactly the deep dark secret I was looking for, but it was the only lead I had.

  Peter Applebaum lived on a quiet street in a quaint four-plex, half-hidden by ancient, giant Maple trees. I walked up to the mailboxes and checked for Peter’s apartment number. 1A.

  I rang the bell and waited. A few minutes later the door opened and I was greeted by a middle-aged man in a wheelchair.

  “Oh, hello. I thought you were U.P.S. I was expecting a package.”

  I tried not to stare at the wheelchair. The man was good-looking, with an athletic build and a nice, friendly smile. I concentrated on that and smiled back at him. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you. I was looking for a Dr. Applebaum.”

  His smile faded slightly. “May I ask why?”

  “Are you Dr. Applebaum?”

  “Actually, Dr. Applebaum was my wife. She died several years ago.”

  My heart took a dive into my stomach. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” I didn’t know what to say after that. It seemed insensitive to do anything but leave. Luckily, Mr. Applebaum was a fan of early morning news shows.

  “You look familiar,” he said. “Aren’t you uh… wait, I’ve got it,” he scrunched his face up in concentration. “Whisky?”

  I laughed. “Brandy. Alexander, WINN news.” I extended my arm and he gave me a warm handshake.

  A few minutes later I found myself sitting in Peter’s living room, a spacious area that opened up into the kitchen. There were stairs leading to a second floor, “Traci’s old office,” he explained to me. “We bought the place upstairs so that she could work from home. Patients used to come in through the staircase outside. I keep thinking one day I’ll get one of those stairway lifts for inside the house, but since Traci’s been gone, I just haven’t been able to bring myself to go up there.”