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

by Shelly Fredman

  I lay in bed, unable to sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about Jeff and Tamra. Could the mild mannered biology professor really have killed his pregnant wife? I wondered if the police had been able to track down the illusive Richard. Was he Tamra’s secret lover? Was he the father of her unborn child? And what was it Bobby had said about chloroform? It was found in her system.

  Chloroform is what the kidnappers used to drug me with when they thought I was Tamra. That had to have taken a lot of pre-planning. Assuming Jeff killed her in a moment of unbridled jealousy, he wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble to have her kidnapped, taken to some unknown destination and then drag her dead body back to their house.

  The more I thought about it, the less possible it seemed that Jeff had murdered his wife. It was just too coincidental that Tamra was investigating Laura Stewart’s death and the next thing you know she winds up dead.

  Oh crap. I’d forgotten to mention to Bobby that Craig had access to Tamra’s house before she died, although I doubted that he had anything to do with her demise either. The poor guy had the mental acuity of a cantaloupe. He didn’t seem capable of pulling off something like this. Plus, Craig’s affection for Tamra was genuine. I couldn’t imagine him doing anything to hurt her.

  I tossed and turned for about an hour, making a “To Do” list in my head. Track down Danny Lang. Talk to Laura Stewart’s brother. Find the guy who tried to kill me. Find the other guy who tried to kill me. Round up a suitable date for Paul’s bar mitzvah. Solve Tamra’s murder. Solve Laura’s murder. Learn to tap dance.

  At four a.m. Adrian hopped off the bed and began whimpering and scratching at the bedroom door. I opened it and he made a beeline for the hallway, bounding down the steps so fast he looked airborne. Chalking it up to the meatball he ate earlier, I followed him down and let him out the front door to do his business.

  Adrian paused on the porch, head cocked, ears straining forward. Cautiously he took a step down and sniffed the ground around Mrs. Gentile’s Azaleas. He was after something, the neighbor’s cat probably, but I was freezing my butt off and just wanted to get back in bed. Suddenly he slipped around the side of the house and disappeared.

  “Damnit, Adrian,” I whispered, stepping off the front porch. Suddenly, my frozen body turned into a sweaty wreck as I realized I wasn’t alone. But before I could invite the scream that was stuck in the back of my throat to come forward, I felt the imprint of large hands on my back and with one swift movement I was knocked head-first into the azalea bush. As I struggled to right myself I slipped backwards on the icy pavement, my feet sliding out from under me. “This is going to hurt,” I remember thinking, just before my head crash-landed on the sidewalk.

  Chapter Ten

  Something not quite heavy was weighing me down. I tried to open my eyes but the effort it took was more than I could afford to expend. My head felt like it had been split wide open. I checked for a crater and found instead a goose bump the size of a fist located behind my right ear. I groaned just to hear the sound of my own voice.

  The weight on my chest shifted and soon I felt moist, heated breath followed by a soft, wet tongue on my mouth. “Oh please don’t let it be human,” I thought, completely grossed out and in a good deal of pain. Forcing my eyes open, I came face to face with Adrian. He was planted on top of me, his paws kneading my chest, his furry little muzzle clamped down on mine as if he were trying to perform CPR.

  I nudged him off me and sat up. Someone had dragged me off the sidewalk and onto the porch. My head was throbbing and I was cold to the bone but, hell, I wasn’t dead, trapped in the trunk of a car or in the process of being strangled so, all things considered, I was in pretty good shape.

  As I rolled over onto my knees, my hand brushed against an envelope that had been stuffed under my hip. I had trouble making out what was written on the front of it.

  You’d think with double vision I’d be able to see twice as well, but such was not the case.

  I had a whopper of a concussion and had to get to the E.R. fast.

  I considered my options. Wake my parents. Oy. Neither one of them is very good in a crisis. Once when I was a little girl I got my finger stuck in the sliding glass door of our beach house down in Jersey. My mother began screaming at the top of her lungs and my father fainted. I had to pull it out by myself and then I sealed the cut with Elmer’s Glue… I could take a cab, but I already felt like I was going to vomit and cabs smell funny. I finally settled on the one person I knew would be awake at this ungodly hour and be cool enough to handle it. I grabbed Adrian and went back inside the house to call my Uncle Frankie.

  Uncle Frankie understands me. He’d spent enough time being the black sheep of the family when he was a kid to recognize a kindred spirit. He was already at the gym but he came and got me. I stood outside, decked out in my Hello Kitty footsie pajamas and my dad’s old pea coat. I’d stuffed the envelope into my coat pocket. I figured whatever was inside wouldn’t be good news, so I’d wait on opening it until I got back from the emergency room. I was kinda hoping Dr. Sanchez wouldn’t be there. It was just too embarrassing.

  Uncle Frankie didn’t ask a lot of questions on the ride up, but on the way back, when he knew I wasn’t in imminent danger of dying, he demanded full disclosure.

  “…so you can see why Bobby can’t know about this. He thinks I’m too ‘fragile’ right now, which is so ridiculous. Oh, and let’s not mention anything to Paul either. At least not until his car comes back from the body shop.”

  Uncle Frankie cut me a look. “What happened to Paul’s car—never mind. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know.” He let a minute pass and then he said, “What’s up with you and DiCarlo anyway?” His voice had taken on a slightly macho Italian edge that belied the casualness of his question. But it was an honest question and it deserved an honest answer.

  “Beats the hell out of me.”

  Thankfully, when I got home my parents were still asleep. I went upstairs and took the envelope out of my coat pocket. My initials were scrawled on the front. With shaking hands I extracted the neatly folded paper that had been tucked inside. The note, typewritten in a commonly used font, was short and to the point.

  “David Dwayne Harmon is a killer. He deserves to die. Stay out of it or suffer the consiquences.” Well, what the hell is that supposed to mean? Plus they misspelled consequences.

  I stuffed the note back in the envelope and shoved it under my mattress. Then I sat down on the bed to make sure it didn’t escape. “Okay,” I decided, when rational thought returned. “I should call the police.” Only what would I tell them? Somebody pushed me? If they had intended to do actual harm it would have been a lot more then a shove.

  My guess is whoever delivered the note did not expect me to come waltzing out of the house at that moment. And they could have left me to freeze to death on the sidewalk. But instead they took the trouble to stick me back up on the porch where I’d be relatively out of harm’s way.

  I stood and slid my hand under the mattress and retrieved the note. Who even knows I’m working on this story? I picked up the phone and called Eric.

  He answered on the third ring. “Hello?” He sounded like I’d woken him from a deep sleep. I envied him.

  “Eric, it’s Brandy. I know it’s early, but I’ve got to talk to you.”

  “Hang on,” he said. There was a whispered apology, obviously not meant for me and then a rustling of sheets. Finally he got back on the line.

  “What’s up?”

  “I’ve got some news on Tamra,” I said, ignoring the fact that I’d just dragged him out of a warm bed where someone named “Sweet Buns” anxiously awaited his return. “The Jersey police have ruled Tamra’s death a homicide. They should be going public any time now.” Eric gave a low whistle.

  “And that’s not all,” I added. “She was pregnant.”

  I filled him in on the details ending with my early morning visitor. “Who else knows that I’m following up on Tamra’s story?�
� I asked.

  Eric hesitated. “You mean besides everyone at the station?”

  Great. That narrows the suspects down to about two hundred and fifty full and part time WINN employees—not to mention all the people I interviewed and managed to piss off in the course of a day. One thing I was pretty sure of. Whoever wrote me that note was not out to hurt me—at least not yet. The note was a warning—and an amateurish one at that.

  Still, I figured I’d better tell the police, so if it turned out I was wrong and the note wasn’t just an empty threat, I’d have something on record. I decided to call Mike Mahoe. He was a friend of sorts, but not close enough that he’d feel obliged to lecture me. I caught him at the station just as he was leaving.

  “Yo,” he said. “What’s up?” So I told him.

  It’s hard to imagine a six foot five inch cop whining like a three year old, but Mike had it down pat. “Aw, c’mon Brandy. Don’t put me in the middle of you and DiCarlo. If I keep something like this from him and he finds out—you know what a hothead he is when it comes to you.”

  “Okay. Look, I’m sorry I got you involved. The note was probably nothing anyway. Just somebody who wants to see justice done and they got a little carried away. Forget I told you. Just please don’t mention it to Bobby.”

  “Oh man,” he muttered. “Bring it in. I’ll keep it on file. But if DiCarlo finds out—”

  “He won’t. And thanks Mike.”

  I felt better in the afternoon, so I decided to run some errands. I went downstairs and found my mother holed up in the kitchen, cleaning out the refrigerator. “Do you have any oregano?” she asked.

  “Um, not unless you left it here when you moved.”

  My mother shook her head in utter disbelief. “Brandy, a good cook always has fresh oregano on hand. Your friends are coming over tonight and they’re expecting a wonderful home-cooked meal.”

  “No they’re not. I mean they just really want to see you guys. The meal is a bonus!”

  I walked into the living room. My dad was seated on the couch watching Rachel Ray. “Good save,” he whispered. Glancing towards the kitchen, he handed me thirty bucks. “If you’re going out, pick up a dozen cannoli from Termini Bros., would you? We’re all gonna starve to death otherwise.” He rolled his eyes heavenward. “God bless your mother, Brandy. She’s a wonderful woman but a lousy cook.”

  I swung by Snake’s garage to check on Paul’s car. It was still sitting up on the pedestal, but at least he was working on it. “How’s it going, Snake?”

  “Be cheaper to scrap it and buy your brother a new car. The body work alone is gonna cost you a fortune.” Gee, I was hoping the answer would be more along the lines of “everything’s going swell and it’ll be ready by dinner time. And by the way, since you’re as cute as a button, I’m throwing in the brake job for free.”

  I settled for a promise that the car would be drivable by sometime next month and headed off to the bakery.

  My head was starting to ache again so I cruised down South Street, looking for the Chocolatier’s shop. I read somewhere, probably in the Journal of the American Medical Association—or maybe it was in a pamphlet put out by the Hershey Company—that chocolate relieves headache pain. It also produces some kick-butt endorphins and after another sleepless night I needed a little pick-me-up.

  The shop is down the block from Lucinda’s gallery. I drove slowly so as not to miss a parking space. Okay, there’s the gallery… I wonder if John’s in there? Ooh. Look at the crowd in front of the window. She must’ve put up a new display. Wow, it looks like one of John’s pictures. How cool is that? Hey… wait a minute… that looks like… Oh John, you are so dead!

  I double parked and bolted from the car, pushing my way through the door of the gallery. A beanpole of a woman wearing black eyeliner that would make a raccoon turn green with envy slinked up to me, tapping her wristwatch. “I’m afraid the gallery is closed, dear.”

  “Yeah, well, the thing is, you’ve got my face hanging in your window and I want you to take it down.”

  She studied me for a moment, no doubt debating whether to call the cops or Mental Health Services. “Excuse me?” she said finally.

  “Look,” I said, walking over to window. The photo was perched on an easel. I spun it around and stuck my head up next to it. “See? Same face. I didn’t give you permission to hang it there.” I picked up the photo and began to walk towards the door.

  “Hey.” Lucinda grabbed me by the arm. She was stronger than she looked and it really hurt. “Where do you think you’re going with that? I’m calling the police.”

  I looked out the window. “No need,” I sighed. “They’re already here.” To be precise they were in the middle of the street towing my car away.

  Lucinda let me go after I explained I was suffering possible brain damage. Then she escorted me to the door and locked it behind me. When I looked again the photo was already back in the window.

  Uncle Frankie bailed me out—again. Luckily, his buddy owns the towing place and it only took an hour to get the car out of hock. Then I raced over to Termini Bros. to pick up dessert.

  It was after four by the time I got back with the cannoli. “Look, Lorraine,” my dad said, feigning surprise. “Brandy brought dessert home. Now you don’t have to go to the trouble of making that pie.”

  “It’s no trouble. I love to bake. You know that. Brandy,” she said, wiping flour off her hands. “Get the cat off the counter and set the dining room table. People will be here in less than two hours and I still have to strain the carrots.”

  “We’re having strained carrots?” I asked. I knew my mom had trouble thinking of my friends and me as adults, but this was going too far.

  She gave me an exaggerated sigh. “Don’t be ridiculous, honey. They’re for the baby.”

  “What baby?” I all but shouted.

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I invited Bobby and his little girl. The more the merrier, I always say.”

  That’s not what she used to say. She used to say, “Keep away from that goddamn hoodlum.” But ever since Bobby became a single dad, he’s risen in her estimation to somewhere bordering on sainthood.

  I spent the next two hours trying to make myself look presentable, only to come to the conclusion that it was a lost cause. Every scary thing that had happened to me in the past few months seemed permanently etched on my face. I felt like shit and worse yet, I looked like it.

  I knew I couldn’t go on like this, feeling all sorry for myself. I needed a major attitude adjustment. After all, people get kidnapped, shot at and strangled every day and you don’t hear them whining about it. (Granted, the majority of them are dead, but still…) I was just going to have to stop being such a wuss and learn to roll with the punches. Okay! I felt much better after putting it into a healthy perspective.

  John was the first to arrive, which was good because I didn’t want to have to kill him in public. “Brandy, I swear I didn’t know Lucinda was going to do that. I am so sorry… you say there was a crowd around it? About how many people do you think—just a rough estimate would be fine.”

  I socked him hard in the arm. “I hate you. My life sucks.”

  “No you don’t and no it doesn’t.” John replied and went off to help my mom in the kitchen.

  Vince came in next with a six pack of Bud and sat down on the couch with my dad to watch the Flyers’ game. I grabbed a beer and tried to get into watching it too, but the truth was I was so tired I couldn’t even tell who they were playing against.

  Paul called and said he was running a little late. One of the bartenders at the club called in sick at the last minute and he had to wait for the sub to arrive. “Okay, Paulie. But please get here as soon as you can, okay? Mom’s trying to organize a game of Charades after dinner.”

  Eddie had a sinus headache so Fran drove over with Janine. They’d gotten into a big fight in the car because Fran and Eddie decided to ask Eddie’s sister and her husband to be the baby’s godparents. Janine
had thought she was a shoe-in. “I’m your twin, for God’s sake. If God forbid anything happened to you, I could step right in and the baby wouldn’t even know the difference.”

  “She has a point there, Fran.”

  Franny shot me a look. “Shut up.”

  “You shut up.”

  My mother stuck her head into the living room. “Girls. Is that any way to talk? Be nice to each other or no dessert.”

  “Jesus,” I said when she was gone. “Do you see how insidious that woman is? She hits town and suddenly we’re nine years old again, fighting over who gets to wear the crown in “Pretty Pretty Princess.”

  “Fran would probably just hand it over to Eddie’s sister,” Janine muttered under her breath. It was going to be a fun evening.

  Frankie and Carla arrived next, followed by Bobby. He was carrying Sophia in his arms. She looked like a porcelain doll all bundled up in a pink snow suit and Dora the Explorer bedroom slippers. “I’m afraid she’s a little cranky, right now,” he apologized. “She fell asleep in the car on the way over here.”

  “Oh she’s just perfect,” my mother cooed, stretching out her arms to take the little girl from him. “Bobby, help yourself to a beer. Brandy, get Bobby a beer.”

  “That’s okay, Mrs. Alexander. I’m fine for now.” He flashed her a smile that could melt the panties off a mannequin and my mother blushed. She actually blushed.

  I went into the hallway to hang up coats. Bobby followed me in and closed the door.

  “So, all through flirting with my mother?”

  “We need to talk,” he said, his voice dangerously calm. Uh oh.

  “About what?” I asked, and made a big deal out of looking for hangers.

  “About this.” He drew an envelope from his back pocket. “Oh and by the way, Mike says to tell you ‘Sorry’.”

  “Look, I can explain.” I stalled, trying to think up a really good lie.