No Such Thing as a Free Lunch (No Such Thing As...: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (2 page)

Talking to Tamra made me feel better. I admired her work, especially her story on toxic dumping along the Schuylkill River. She’d made a few enemies on that one, but she didn’t back down. I guess that’s another thing we have in common. My whole life, everyone from my parents to my high school principal has told me I go looking for trouble. Only I don’t think they meant it as a compliment.

“How about we knock off for lunch?” Tamra said an hour later. “My treat. I’ve got a story that’s about to break and I feel like celebrating.”

The Walnut Street Inn is an old-world, luxury hotel, located about half a block from work. We’d walked over and were now seated at a window table in a cream colored room with dark paneling and polished wood floors. Tamra picked up the wine list and ordered half a carafe. It cost more than I spend on groceries for the week.

“Tamra,” I gulped, “when you said you wanted to go out to eat, I thought you meant McDonald’s. I can’t let you pay for me.” Actually, my conscience told me I couldn’t let her pay, but my pocketbook was screaming, “Oh boy, free lunch.” I’d spent my last dime on the corn dogs and I was nearly max-ed out on credit, so I hoped she’d argue the point. She did.

“Look, I wanted your company. I could use some intelligent conversation after spending half the morning listening to that blow-hard Metropolis.”

“One lousy meal and you think you’re entitled to intelligent conversation? What kind of girl do you think I am?”

Tamra smiled. “A smart one. Brave, too, from what I’ve read about you in the papers. That was some stunt you pulled off last month.”

Tamra was referring to a little situation I’d gotten myself into, involving a crooked lawyer, a psycho-meth freak and the fate of the free world.

“Dumb luck,” I said, making a mental note to learn how to accept a compliment. I pulled some fresh sour dough out of the breadbasket and took a bite.

Tamra ordered the “special”—grilled swordfish with a lemon-butter sauce, baked potato and asparagus. She insisted I get a big lunch too—“and save room for dessert, they have homemade cherry pie.” She didn’t have to tell me twice.

In the middle of lunch, Tamra’s cell phone rang. She looked at the caller ID and tensed. Instead of answering, she slipped it into her bag and continued eating, although her whole demeanor had changed. “Are you married, Brandy?” she asked, suddenly.

I was surprised by the question. “No. I guess I never felt ready for that kind of commitment.” Just a small white lie. In actuality, I’d practically been left at the altar.

“Smart girl,” Tamra said. “If I had it to do over—” She let the thought hang in the air and went back to her asparagus.

Wow. I wonder what that was all about.
I didn’t have time to dwell on her remark, because at that moment Yankees’ shortstop, (and my vote for “freebie” if I’m ever in a serious relationship with someone, but we each get to pick one famous person to fulfill our deepest fantasies, should the occasion ever arise), Derek Jeter, walked past our table and winked at me.

Without thinking I winked back, only to discover he’d squirted lemon juice in his eye and was actually in a good deal of pain.
Damn, now he thinks I’m making fun of him and he’ll never agree to sleep with me
. Reluctantly, I turned my attention back to Tamra, but she didn’t seem inclined to elaborate on her comment.

Before the waiter brought dessert, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. When I returned, there was a guy standing by our table. He looked to be in his early forties, with sandy brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a sport’s coat and khaki pants. As I approached the table I heard Tamra’s voice, shrill with anger. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself, Jeff. I’ll talk to you when I get home.”

“I’m not leaving until you tell me the truth.”

I did an about-face and began walking towards the rest room when Tamra called me back to the table.

“Here’s my
date
, Jeff.”

Well, this is awkward.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Brandy Alexander. I work with Tamra.”

Jeff loomed over Tamra, ignoring my outstretched hand. “You’re lying to me, Tamra. You’ve been lying for months.”

Tamra stood up, pushing her chair back with surprising force. She threw her napkin on the table, the words spewing from her mouth like acid rain.

“I will not stand here and have this conversation with you. I’m leaving.”

She grabbed her coat and made a furious exit, stranding me with her husband. Jeff reached into his coat pocket and for a brief, hopeful moment I thought he was going to pull out his credit card and say, “Sorry for the interruption, Brandy, lunch is on me.” He didn’t.

The waiter came by with the bill. Oh my God, it was over a hundred dollars. That woman sure could pack it away. I wondered what the chances were of making it out the door before Jeff did—you know—last one out is a rotten egg and has to pay the check. While I was pondering this, he left.

I didn’t get back to work for another hour and a half. That’s how long it took for Paul to get to the restaurant and pay the bill. I passed the time by helping the staff set up the tables for the dinner crowd.

I didn’t see Tamra again until late afternoon. She walked into the bathroom when I was headed out. She looked upset, her eyes wet and smeared with mascara.

“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 fountain 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?