No Such Thing As a Good Blind Date: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (12 page)

“Did he kiss you goodnight?”

“No.” And I have to say, I was really disappointed.

“Hang on a second.” Franny cupped her hand over the receiver.
“Hello,
can’t you see I’m trying to have a conversation here? They’re in your top right hand drawer. Sheesh,” she muttered, turning her attention back to me. “Men are so inept.”

“What? Eddie couldn’t find his socks?”

“Not Eddie—my boss.”

“You talk to your boss like that? How do you get away with it?”

“They’re afraid of me. And now that I’m pregnant they just chalk it up to mood swings. So when are you going to see him again?”

“It’s not like we’re dating, Fran. He’s helping me out with—”
uh oh.
Too late I remembered I hadn’t told her about Toodie.

Franny lowered her voice to a whisper. “Helping you out with what? And this better be good. I can always tell when you’re lying.” It’s true. She could.

“Franny, I swear, I’ll tell ya, but not now, okay? I need to get ready to go to work.”
With a little pit stop at Mastercarb.

“Oh, right. Who goes clubbing at nine in the morning?”

“Paul’s got a group flying in from New Zealand. It’s the middle of the night, their time.”

“You’re up to something. I can feel it. That’s alright. You can tell me all about it on Saturday.”

“What’s on Saturday?”

“You’re not the only one who can be mysterious, ya know. You’ll find out on Saturday.”

Before I left, I put out a little bowl of carrots for the dog. He really likes them, and it seemed to help with his elimination problem. There was still nothing to write home about in that department, but at least
something
was coming out. I didn’t know how long I was going to be gone, so I called John and asked him to stop in and let “Herman” out, mid afternoon. (I’d fallen asleep watching “The Munsters” last night and the name got stuck in my mind.)

I looked up the address for Mastercarb, on Passyunk Avenue, about a twenty-minute ride from my house in morning traffic. The closer I got the more I started thinking this was a really stupid idea. I mean what if Turk Davis turned out to be as dangerous as his brother? Nick offered to help me. Why couldn’t I just wait to see what he turned up? Because I have the patience of a flea. That’s why.

Now that I mentioned Nick to myself, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Not that he spends an inordinate amount of time thinking about me. I’m not his type. I’ve
seen
his type. Okay, not
seen
her exactly, but she’s easy to imagine. Tall, voluptuous, long-limbed, exotic. A natural blonde. Probably owns her own business. Oh crap. I missed my turn. I did a quick “U”ie in the middle of the intersection and stepped on it before the guy in back of me completed his middle finger salute.

I parked on the street and fed the meter. I didn’t have a clue what I was going to say to this guy.
“Hi. Did your brother by any chance whack some girl and stuff her in a freezer, and if so, do you know where I can find him in order to obtain a full confession? And could you check my oil?”

He was around back, in the garage. The kid at the front desk called for him over the intercom and told me to have a seat in their reception area. I spent a few minutes staring up at a poster of a semi-naked woman on a motorcycle who was, apparently, too poor to buy clothes, because she just blew all her money on a new twelve thousand dollar bike, and then a guy appeared and the kid directed him over to me.

With a pleasant face, a soft, round body, and dark, furry tufts sticking out from the open collar of his shirt, Turk Davis looked like Winnie the Pooh in coveralls. Not exactly a dead ringer for his brother. “Hi, I’m Turk. Did you want to talk to me?”

I stood up and extended my hand.

“Hi, Turk. I’m Brandy. I was hoping you could help me. I’m trying to locate your brother, Glen.”

Instantly, Turk’s congenial face clouded over. “What’s he done now?”

“Oh, no. It’s nothing like that. He’s—a friend of a friend and I was told to look him up when I came to town—”

He cut me off with a shake of his head. “Look, you seem like a nice girl. Do yourself a favor and stay away from my brother.”

“I really need to find him.”

“Then you came to the wrong person. The family wants nothin’ to do with Glen. He’s a freakin’ nut. And if you had any brains in your head you’d steer clear of him too.”

I guess he thought the conversation was over, because he turned and headed back towards the garage. I caught up with him and yanked hard on his arm.

“Yo! Let go!”

“Look, I’m not screwing around here, Turk My friend is in trouble, and Glen’s the only one who can clear his name. Now I need you to help me out here.” I whipped out a paper with my name and number scrawled on it and handed it to him. “You hear of his whereabouts, I need you to tell me, see? I could make things rough for you, see?”

I almost threw in a “you dirty rat” but that might have been pushing it.

Turk laughed. He
laughed.
“You watched White Heat with Jimmy Cagney last night, didn’t you?”

“Okay,” I admitted. “But I’m desperate, Turk.”

“Christ,” he muttered, “If Glen’s your friend’s only hope, he’s in a shitload of trouble.” But he promised to call me if he came up with anything.

It was only noon and I didn’t have to be at Paul’s until two, so I stopped off at DiVinci’s for some lunch. The place was packed with kids from the college, so I looked around for a friendly face to share a booth with. What I found instead was Bobby. There were two empty Coronas parked in front of him and a third one on the way, along with a gigantic pepperoni pizza. As far as I could tell, he was dining alone.

I recognized the waitress, Lindsay Sargenti, one of fourteen Sargenti children and a junior at U of P. Lindsay cleared the empties and set the pizza down on the table.

“Careful, it’s hot.”

“Thanks, Linz.”

“You sure you want this beer, Bobby? Aren’t you on duty or something?”

I wasn’t eavesdropping. I’m sure of it. I was just studying Lindsay for pointers on how to better serve my customers at Paul’s. I drew the hood up on my jacket and moved a little closer.

Bobby grabbed Lindsay’s hand and held it, a thoroughly seductive grin on his face. “I’m not on duty, Linz. But thanks for caring.” He lowered his head and placed a tender kiss on the back of her hand. Lindsay gazed back at him, a sly smile on her pretty face.

“Get bent, DiCarlo. Hey, there’s Brandy. Hi, Bran.” She started waving like mad with her free hand. I tried to pretend I didn’t see her and moved away from the table, but she kept on yelling for me until I couldn’t ignore her any longer.

“Oh, hi, Lindsay. I didn’t see you there.” I gave a quick nod to Bobby. “How’s Monica? Did she deliver yet?” Lindsay’s older sister Monica and I went to school together. She’s on, like, her eighth kid.

“Yesterday. Another boy. Are you eating here? Because there’s a wait—unless you guys want to share a table.”

“I, uh…” Bobby’s legs were stretched out under the table, resting on the seat opposite him. He moved his feet, allowing me access to the booth. I eyed his pizza. It was dripping with grease and calling my name. “You gonna eat that whole thing yourself?”

“I was planning on it. Want some?” He offered me up a slice.

I sat down and dug in. Bobby had a slice too and along with it another beer. He wasn’t drunk, but he wasn’t feeling any pain either. He had an air of resignation I’d never seen in him before and it scared me.

“Why are you sitting here alone, drinking and stuffing your face with pepperoni in the middle of the day?”

He pushed his plate away and belched. “She doesn’t want me hanging out at Eddie’s because Franny’s your friend. I can’t go to the gym because Frankie’s your uncle. The only thing I’m allowed to do is sit here and get fat. So that’s what I’m doin’. You got a problem with that?”

“Yes, I have a problem with that!” I gave his leg a swift kick under the table.

“Ow!”

“For Christ’s sake, Bobby, have you checked your pants lately, because you seem to be missing both your balls.” I might have said that last part a little too loud because the people in the next both over laughed. Bobby shot me a look that would have annihilated a weaker person. I lowered my voice and added, “Well, I’m sorry, but it’s true.”

“You’re all about the compassion, aren’t ya?” He stood up and threw some bills on the table.

“Oh, sure. Run away. That’s really going to solve it.”

Bobby stood there a minute, glaring at me. I didn’t know what else to do, so I kept on eating.

“Ah, shit,” he said, finally, slumping back into the booth. “I hate when you’re right.”

“I am?”

He nodded. “What am I going to do?”

I was pretty sure this last question was rhetorical, since he said it mostly into his beer.

I slid out from the booth, grabbing another slice of pizza along the way. “Bobby, all I know is if I dropped off the face of the earth, Marie would find someone else to fixate on. It’s never going to be any different until you take charge of your life again. Thanks for lunch.”

Paul thought it would be fun if I tried my hand at valet parking. “You get to drive really hot cars and there’s not a lot of customer interaction.”

“You’re just upset because of that guy at the bar,” I said. “Look,
someone
had to tell him girls don’t go for cheap tippers.”

Paul rubbed his goatee so hard it was in danger of falling off. “Ya know, c-come to think of it, I overstaffed for today. I’m g-gonna p-pay you anyway. It’s club policy.”

As I pulled out of the parking lot my cell phone rang. It was John. “Hey John. I was just going to call you. Turns out I don’t have to work, so I can let the dog out myself.”

“Actually, I’m at your house now…are you coming home soon?”

I pulled out into traffic and hung a left onto Market Street. “I’m on my way. You sound weird. Is there something wrong?”

“No…not wrong, exactly.” Fuck.

“Has anyone died in my house or general living vicinity?”

“Shut-uh-up. No one’s died. Just get your buns home, okay?”

“Eewww. What
is
that?” John and I sat hunched together on my back patio, staring down at a big gooey mess. I guess the raisins finally kicked in, because whatever had clogged up the dog had suddenly unclogged, along with the entire contents of his bowels. The culprit measured an inch and a half long, wrapped in a colorful bit of paper and held together with a rubber band. I ran back inside the house and returned a moment later with a pair of tweezers and some paper toweling.

“This is so gross,” I announced, poking around with the tweezers. I grabbed the mini package and laid it down on the towel.

“Now what?” John asked.

“Now somebody has to clean it off.” I waited a beat, but John didn’t volunteer. I didn’t really think he would. “Fine. I’ll do it. No big deal. It’s only digested food.”

“You keep telling yourself that, Sunshine,” he said and went back into the house.

I followed him in and stuck the paper towel in the kitchen sink. There was a pair of disposable gloves under the sink. I pulled them on and sprayed some Windex on the mini package. Then I wiped it thoroughly with fresh paper towels. It didn’t smell anymore so I decided it was safe to touch. Finally, the mystery behind the poor little guy’s stomach problems would be solved. I tore off the paper.

“What is it?”

“I have no idea.”

John came over and took a look. “Hmm. It looks like a thumb drive.”

“A what?” I washed my hands and reached into the cabinet for a TastyKake. I was all out, so I went to plan B and took a frozen Milky Way out of the freezer.

“A thumb drive. It’s a computer device for storing information. Kind of a new age floppy. It plugs into your computer’s USB port.”

“That came out of him? It’s a miracle. Hey, can we see what’s on it?”

“I’ve got to go,” John said. “I’ve got a date.”

“With who?” I dug into the back of the freezer and retrieved another Milky Way.

“Friend of Richard’s. I haven’t met him yet.” Richard is a performance artist. His idea of a good time is sticking pins through his cheek and peeing on the audience.

“A blind date? I don’t know, John. Mine haven’t worked out all that well.”

“Maybe Richard knows someone for you too.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

After John left I took out my laptop and booted it up. There was a ton of junk mail and a letter from my friend Michelle, from L.A. She told me how the new reporter they hired to replace me on the Early Edition News (a former Olympic shot putter) was doing a piece on Go Carts, only once she climbed into the cart she got wedged between the seat and the steering wheel and they had to use the “Jaws of Life” to pry her loose. I felt bad for her, but it was comforting to know there’s a job out there that’s more humiliating than having none at all.

The thumb drive was still sitting on the kitchen table. Where did it come from and how did the dog end up swallowing it? I was dying to know what was on the disk, but it seemed impolite to just open some stranger’s files.
Unless… it wasn’t a stranger’s. Maybe the disk belonged to Keith.
When I looked back on his interactions with the dog, Keith’s only real interest was in its bowel movements. Now I understood why he’d kept asking me if the dog had gone to the bathroom. He had to get the dog back before it pooped out the disk! There was only one way to test this theory. I had to open the files.

Seeing as all I really know how to do on the computer is surf the Internet and cut and paste, I spent about fifteen minutes poking around, trying to figure out how to access the information. Finally I gave up and called John.

“Hi. It’s me. I need to know how to plug the thumb drive in.”

“Can I help you with this later?”

“But I really need to do it now.”

“I’m on a date,” he hissed.

“Yeah, I know. It’s really rude to keep him waiting, so if you’ll just tell me how to plug this thing in, you can hang up and get back to your date.”

“Or, I can just hang up.”

Oh fine. I left messages for Franny and Janine to call me, and then I made myself a tuna melt, which I shared with Rocky because the dog ate her cat crunchies.