No Such Thing As a Good Blind Date: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (8 page)

“I found him wandering around about a half a block from Glen’s house. He looked all sad and pathetic. I had to help him.”

Sort of like me and Toodie.

I woke up feeling vaguely depressed. I hate to admit it but the situation with Bobby was really getting to me. The old Bobby would never turn his back on a friend. Then again, the old Bobby didn’t have a wife who threatened to disappear with his kid so that he’d never see her again. And after meeting Marie DiCarlo I had no doubt she could make that happen.

In a way, I feel sorry for Marie. She’s in love with a man who doesn’t love her back, and she’s fighting to keep her marriage together. I really couldn’t fault her for that. Maybe if I had fought for Bobby four years ago, things would be different now. There’s that damn hindsight again. Anyway, the point is, she thinks I’m the problem, but I’m not.

The address Toodie gave me was a seedy looking 1940’s duplex just off of Frankford Avenue. I was parked next to Jolly Jack’s bar, which, judging by the people staggering out of there, was a neighborhood hangout for the criminally insane. Glen’s apartment was a few doors down on the right; a wood and brick abomination that looked like it was in the throes of hurricane season. A filthy storm door hung precariously by one hinge. There was a trashcan, filled to overflowing, next to it. Garbage spilled out onto the street, causing the gutter to become clogged with the overflow.

I was afraid to get out of the car, so I reached under the seat and pulled out a pair of mini binoculars that Paul had left after a Flyers’ game. I put them up to my eyes and zeroed in on the front window. The drapes were open and I had a clear view of the activities.

A ruddy-faced woman in her sixties was sponging down the windowsill. Beyond her, I spied two beefy men in overalls, hauling huge bags of trash through the house. From what Toodie had told me, Glen didn’t seem like the Spring Cleaning type, so I gathered up my courage and unlocked the car door.

I approached the apartment and gave a tentative knock. The front door opened, allowing me to see into the living room. If Glen lived there, he certainly couldn’t be accused of being a pack rat. The place was almost completely bare. “Yeah?” The woman with the ruddy face stepped out from behind the door.

“Hi,” I said brightly. “I’m looking for Glen.”

The woman narrowed her eyes so close together she looked like a Cyclops. “Stand in line. Does he owe you money?” she added as an afterthought.

“No, um, can I come in for a minute?”

She moved her ample body off to the side and allowed me to pass through. Clearly, Glen no longer resided there. A quick glance around the room told me I was lucky not to have crossed paths with him. A large, crudely drawn swastika was etched into the door jamb, leading into the bedroom. There was a hole in the ceiling that could only have been left by a high- powered rifle. Lucky for his neighbor, it was a side-by-side duplex and not the stackable kind. The walls had been washed down, but the outline of some cartoon-like, anatomically impossible pornography remained. A bucket of lemon-scented ammonia sat in a corner. The apartment was unbearably hot.

“Broken thermostat,” the landlady shrugged. “You know you look too clean to be a friend of Glen’s,” she added. What do you want with him?”

“Oh, I—”

She interrupted me before I could think of a good lie. “Hey, you’re not one of those yuppie drug addicts are you? I’ve read about your kind in the paper.”

I assured her I was not, although at this point I would have killed for a Xanex.

The roar of an engine had me running to the door, but I was too late. The truck carrying Glen’s belongings had disappeared around the corner, and with it, my chance to rifle through his personal effects.

“Where are they going with that stuff?” I asked.

The woman shrugged. “City dump. It was all worthless crap anyway. Just clothes, an old mattress.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” During my tenure in Hollywood, I learned a few tricks about personalizing conversations. It tended to make people trust you.

“Didi.”

“Do you mind if I take a quick look around, Didi?”

“Be my guest. Help yourself to anything that’s left over. That sonovabitch owes me two months rent. Snuck out in the middle of the night and left me with a stinking mess.”

I was tempted to ask her if the mess included a woman’s head, but she was the chatty sort, and I figured if that were the case she would have mentioned it.

I poked around some, but the cleaning crew was disappointingly thorough. There was no smoking gun, bloody knife or confession note left behind to point to Glen as the killer.

I wandered into the kitchen. An old landline phone was tacked up to the wall and next to it, a bunch of numbers had been scribbled down. Ginos’ Pizza, Dale’s Pharmacy and a 900 number that, if my memory for late night cable TV commercials served me correctly, belonged to PhoneDatePlaymate. I took down the pharmacy number and walked into the bedroom.

It was empty, except for a small waste paper basket that had somehow eluded the cleaning crew. I picked it up and examined the mostly revolting contents. There was not much to go on; an old lottery ticket, a broken hairbrush with a small tangle of hair stuck to it, some used Kleenex and an old TV Guide with a picture of Reba McEntire on the cover and her front teeth blackened out.

I pocketed the lottery ticket and rooted through my pocketbook until I found a baggie. It was half filled with Cheez-its. I ate the Cheez-its and then placed the hairbrush in the baggie, in case the police needed it for DNA evidence somewhere down the line. Even as I went through the motions, I knew it was all a fruitless effort, but I’d promised Toodie I’d try to help. At least I established there really was a Glen.

“One more thing, if you don’t mind,” I said to Didi. “Did Glen have a girlfriend?”

“Are you a cop? Because I don’t want no trouble.”

“No, I’m not with the police. I’m just looking for someone and I thought Glen might know where she is.”

Didi was a lot more cooperative when she thought I had any actual authority over her. She picked up a broom and pointed it at my chest. “I’ve got work to do and you’ve been here long enough.”

I agreed, but I wasn’t quite ready to go. I bent my head and made loud sniffing noises.

“You crying?”

I nodded vigorously. “It’s just that the woman I’m looking for is my sister. She’s missing and someone told me she may have hooked up with this low-life, and—and—”

“That’s alright, honey.” She leaned the broom against the wall and gave me an awkward pat on the back, which I’m sure was meant to comfort, but actually really hurt. “I wish I could tell you more. I don’t live on the property. Maybe the guy next door can tell you something.”

He wasn’t home but Didi took my phone number and promised to have him call me if he had any more information.

Okay. I’d kept my promise to Toodie and checked out Glen. The logical thing to do now would be to tell the cops what I know. There was just one problem. While I was thinking of my little detour to Glen’s as a minor delay in disseminating information, they might interpret it as withholding evidence and obstruction of justice.

If I had called them as soon as Toodie contacted me, they could have sent officers over to Glen’s to check out his place. He may even have still been there. But now any evidence of a crime being committed was washed away by Didi or hauled to the city dump. I could just hear my mother’s voice if she ever got wind of this:
“I’m very disappointed in you, Brandy Renee.”
Well, mom, I’m very disappointed in me too. I really screwed up.

Maybe if I could somehow locate Glen, I’d be able to go to the police with something substantial. Toodie had given me a fairly detailed description of the guy—about 5’9”, one hundred and thirty- five pounds, with a shaved head and a tattoo of a naked woman on his right forearm. I mean how hard could it be to find a methadrine-lovin,’ tattooed skinhead psychopath in the city of brotherly love? There’s one on every street corner. The trick was finding the right one.

I took a quick cruise around the neighborhood before I headed home. I don’t know what I expected to find. Maybe Glen lurking in a dumpster but life is rarely so accommodating.

I’d made some fliers about a lost dog and stuck them up haphazardly along Frankford Avenue. The thing is, I really liked the little guy and I wasn’t too anxious to find its rightful owner. But as John pointed out, what if it belongs to a lonely old lady, or some kid who cries himself to sleep every night wondering if his dog will ever come home. I’d lived in L.A. too long not to worry at least a little about Karma.

It was Open Mic night at Paul’s club and the place was packed. Someone started a rumor (okay, it was me) that Keanu Reeves’ band was playing there, and all the locals flocked to the place to see a bonafide celebrity.
I
even got a little excited before I remembered I was the one who’d started the rumor.

“Bran,” Paul said, rubbing his goatee in a gesture of frustration, “I know you’re just trying to help me out here, but do me a favor and be a little less helpful.”

“Ya know,” I said, ignoring him, “I have some really good ideas for the club, Paul. For instance, Karaoke is very popular in L.A., and maybe we could put in an oyster bar and strobe lights over the dance floor and—”

“Bran, you’re still looking for a real job, right?”

“Oh, Paulie, if you’re worried that I’m going to leave you in the lurch, you can stop right now. You know I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“You could, though. Honest. But in the mean time, do you think you could deliver these drinks to table six?”

“Yeah, sure. But just think about those strobe lights, okay?”

I got home a little after two a.m. and fell into bed exhausted, too tired even to worry about Toodie.

A light snow had fallen during the night, blanketing the street with a pure white powder. I looked out my bedroom window and there was Mrs. Gentile, outside in her housecoat, sweeping the snow from her steps. Nature wasn’t going to have one up on her, not if she could help it.

I turned from the window and a moment later was struck by a loud grunting sound, followed by some creative Italian cursing. I looked out again and there she was, butt on the pavement, calling for help. I was tempted to ignore her, but I couldn’t just leave her there with her scrawny legs flailing about in the cold, winter air. I yanked open my window and called down to her. “Are you okay, Mrs. Gentile?”

“Do I look okay?”

She didn’t, but I had high hopes.

“Come down here and help me up.”

I sighed and silently prayed she hadn’t broken anything, so that I’d have to cart her off to the emergency room.

Thankfully, she was just a little banged up, nothing life threatening. I helped her into her house and eased her down into a chair. Wow, she’d been our neighbor for over twenty-five years and I’d never stepped foot inside her home. It smelled like cat pee, although to my knowledge she doesn’t have a cat.

“Can I get you anything before I go?” I was trying to be gracious but it was hard, seeing as the last time we conversed she informed me that I was going to “burn in hell” for sins both real and imagined.

“A little broth would be nice. There’s some on the stove.”

I followed the cat pee smell into the kitchen. Mystery solved.

After delivering Mrs. Gentile her broth, I propped her legs up on the ottoman and made a half-hearted offer for her to call me, should she need anything. I then made a hasty retreat to my house. Two minutes later the phone rang. Oh crap. I must not have wiped my feet when I walked on her rug and now she wants me to shampoo her carpet.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” said a pleasant sounding male voice. “I’m calling about the lost dog. I think it’s mine.”

My heart sank. “Oh, well, do you mind describing him for me?”

“No, sure. He’s light brown, mixed breed, shaggy—”

“I’m sorry, but anyone would know that. I wrote it on the flier. Could you tell me something special about him? Something only the owner would know?”

The voice on the other end hesitated a beat. “His favorite color is green.”

I didn’t want to laugh, but it was funny. “I’m sorry. I just want to make sure I give him back to his rightful owner.”

“Sounds like he’s won you over.”

“He has,” I admitted. “What’s his name, anyway?”

“Fluffy.”

“Fluffy?”

“My niece named him. Personally, I would’ve gone with something more macho, like Brutus…or Buttercup.”

I laughed again.

“I’m Keith, by the way.”

“I’m Brandy.”

“Brandy. That’s an unusual name and yet it seems like I just heard it recently.” There was a slight pause while Keith tried to remember that he saw me on the evening news, courtesy of Barry Kaminski’s “on the scene” reporting. “Hey,” he said, the light dawning, “you wouldn’t by any chance be the woman who found the dead body in her basement, would you?”

If he’d had a hopeful note in his voice I would have slammed the phone down in his ear, but he sounded properly sympathetic so I confessed.

“As luck would have it, I am. So, how’d you lose your dog?” I asked, signaling an end to that part of the conversation.

Turns out, Keith is a lawyer who has a client near the 2200 block of Frankford Avenue. He took Fluffy with him to drop some papers off at the client’s house, and the woman’s young son accidentally let the dog out the front gate.

“I’ve been really worried about him. He’s got some stomach problems.”

“Yeah, I noticed. He’s been constipated for a few days. I was going to run him over to the vet’s.”

“He’s on special medication and it’s important that I get him back on his regimen as soon as possible. I was wondering when I could pick him up.”

I wasn’t too anxious to have a stranger show up at my door—not after everything that’s happened.

“Why don’t we meet somewhere?”

“Great idea. Listen,” he said, “you’ve been so nice, taking care of Fluffy for me. How about we meet at La Boheme at Penn’s Landing? My office is half a block from there. I can drop the dog off and then take you to lunch.”