No Such Thing As a Good Blind Date: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (5 page)

I tried to grab the little yapper, but Rocky strolled by at that moment, stopping in the doorway to lick her crotch. The dog bolted out of reach and took off after her. Rocky freaked and puffed herself up to three times her normal size. She hissed and clawed at him and then flew down the stairs with the dog in hot pursuit. I stumbled after them, pausing briefly to pick up the phone extension. “Russell, I’ll call you back.”

I found Rocky cowering under the sofa. The dog was playfully swatting at her, wiggling his shaggy brown butt in the air as he tried to join her under the couch. He was actually very cute, with huge dark eyes and a water fountain tail. He was about as big as a cocker spaniel and seemed inordinately good-natured—somewhat like Toodie.
Toodie!

“Okay, toughie, leave the kitten alone.” I tugged on his belly and he immediately rolled over onto his back, gazing up at me with those big brown eyes.

“No. Don’t look adorable. I refuse to be taken in by your cuteness. You peed in my guest room. I’m mad at you.” It was hopeless. I was hooked.

I wondered if the little guy was hungry. As if he could read my mind, he followed me into the kitchen and jumped up onto a chair, seating himself at the table. I looked around for a suitable meal for him and settled on Rocky’s cat crunchies. I poured a little into a plastic bowl and placed it in front of him. He sniffed at it for a minute and then took a swipe, knocking the bowl onto the floor. I wanted to be mad, but he gave me such a bewildered look I just cleaned up the kibble and made him a fried egg instead.

I sat down at the table next to him, watching him plant his face in the dish, egg yolk smeared all over his snout. Leaning back in the chair, I assessed my situation: jobless, penniless, mate-less, dining at the kitchen table with a stray mutt of undetermined origins. My mother would be so proud.

After I cleaned up his face I took him into backyard to pee. When I say yard, I’m exaggerating. It’s really more of a four by four slab of concrete with weeds sticking out of the cracks in the cement. The dog wandered around in a circle, stopping once or twice to chase something that wasn’t there. It was cold and I was running out of patience.

“Come on,
do
something already.”

On cue he squatted and did his business. At least he tried to, but nothing came out. Finally, he gave up and waddled back into the house.

I tried calling Toodie’s cell phone but all I got was his voice mail, so I left a brief message urging him to call me. In all probability, Toodie had gone on a bender and had forgotten where he lived. He was no doubt shacked up somewhere sleeping it off. At least, that’s what I hope happened. Because, like it or not, I’d really grown to care about the guy; he was like the pet I’d never had as a child and I kinda felt responsible for him. If he didn’t show up, how was I going to tell his grandma that I’d somehow misplaced him? I had enough trouble already. The dog was eating my shoe.

“Am I as boring as I think everyone else is?”

“If I say yes, will you still help me make dinner?” It was Saturday afternoon and John was seated at my kitchen table, arranging layers of fresh pasta into a large casserole dish. John is an expert photographer and an excellent cook all rolled into a five foot three inch, adorably egotistical package.

My blind date was due to arrive in three hours and fourteen minutes and dinner wasn’t half ready. I would have gone ahead and ordered out, but Toodie had volunteered to make lasagna for me. Only I hadn’t heard a word from him in two days. I’d called his cell phone numerous times and tried to leave messages for him, but after a while the voice-mail wouldn’t accept any new calls, which meant he wasn’t retrieving his incoming calls. I didn’t want to be worried about him, but I was.

“Ya know,” said John, “you could try being a little more diplomatic. I’m up to my elbows in wet noodles here. I don’t do this for just anyone, ya know.”

I rolled my eyes heavenward.

“I saw that.”

Rocky sauntered into the kitchen and jumped up onto the counter, pausing to lick the marinara sauce off the ladle.

“Will you get her off of there? That’s disgusting.”

I reached over and set Rocky on the floor next to Toodie’s dog. In the two days since he’s been here, they’ve become thick as thieves. I don’t know if I like it. They always seem to be plotting against me.

“How’re ya doing, Spike?” I asked, rubbing the soft spot behind his ear.

“Spike?”

“I’m trying it out.”

John shook his head. “Too butch. How about Leonardo?”

“Too gay.”

“Shut-uh up! What’s wrong with that?”

“I may want grandpuppies some day.”

“You mean you’re going to keep him?” John shoved the tray of lasagna into the oven and began tearing up lettuce for the salad. I reached over and grabbed a carrot out of the salad bowl.

“Wash your hands, for God’s sake. Where were you born? In a barn?”

I flashed him a huge smile. “Thanks, John. You know how much I miss my mom.”

Just as I finished squeezing my size six butt into size five pants the doorbell rang. Fido (okay, I’d have to work on the name thing) started running around in circles barking his head off and chasing his tail while Rocky dove under the couch. I did a quick check in the mirror. No stains on my shirt, both shoes matched and although I don’t use make-up, there was a healthy glow to my cheeks from turning my head upside down to blow dry my hair, which lay poker straight and to my shoulders. “Well, I’m good to go.” I opened the door.

Barry Kaminski stood on my porch, impeccably dressed in a gray mohair overcoat and holding a bouquet of long stemmed roses. The man was drop-dead Cary Grant gorgeous.
And about as old! What was Carla thinking?
I tried not to let surprise register on my face as I led him inside.

“Thank you for the flowers. They’re lovely.” Seeing as the only vase I had was the empty jar of marina sauce I’d just tossed into the recycle bin, I laid the flowers on the end table next to the couch.

Earlier, I’d chilled a couple of Buds for our pre-dinner aperitif, but Barry didn’t strike me as the beer swillin’ type. Unfortunately, all I had left was a bottle of Gatorade and some instant coffee, both of which he graciously declined.

“I’m sorry about the mix up,” he said when we were settled on the couch. “My mother forgets it’s been forty-five years since my Bar Mitzvah. In her mind it was just last week.”

“No problem, Barry. I’m from Los Angeles. May-December romances are a dime a dozen out there.”
Oh my God. What just came out of my mouth?
“What I meant was I’m sure we have tons in common. For instance, Carla mentioned you’re an executive with The News Network.”
All right!
Nice segue into the whole “I need a job” discussion. I was practically high-fiving myself when I heard Barry sigh. “What’s wrong?”

“You wouldn’t believe how many Woodward and Bernstein wannabees there are out there. And it seems that every one of them wants a job at my network. So, what do
you
do for a living?”

The phone rang and I ran to the dining room to answer it.

“So what’s he like?” Janine screamed into the phone. The drunken roar in the background told me she was calling from Fritzy’s Sports Bar.

I cupped my hand around the mouthpiece. “He’s old,” I whispered.

“What?”

“He’s old,” I said again, only slightly louder.

“I can’t hear you. Say it again,” Janine bellowed.

“She said, ‘He’s old.’”

I whipped around to find Barry smiling back at me from the couch. He may be old but he has excellent hearing.

“I gotta go.” I hung up the phone.

“Brandy,” Barry said, rising up from the couch, “you’re delightful. But I’m sure I’m not what you had in mind when you signed up for this evening. Maybe we should call it a night.”

“No. Really. We’re just getting to know each other. Um, I’m just going to go check on dinner.”

Barry followed me into the kitchen where we found Rocky stretched length-wise on top of the lasagna, digging her claws into the freshly baked noodles.
Unhhh!
If Barry hadn’t been standing right there, I would have just spread some more sauce on top and prayed he wasn’t allergic to cat fur, but seeing as he’d just witnessed this culinary debacle, I was hard pressed to pretend it was still edible. My chances of looking like a competent, employable person were disintegrating along with the meal.

“Rocky!” I admonished, acting like this was the very first time she’d ever done such a thing. She didn’t look one bit sorry that I was going to spend the rest of my working life fetching margaritas for Paul’s lowlife customers. “Barry, I’m sorry.”

“No, really, it’s not a problem,” he said, trying hard not to look nauseated. “Look, maybe this is a sign that the evening just wasn’t meant to be.” He reached for his coat and began walking towards the front door, taking my dreams for the future along with him.

“Don’t be silly,” I said, hauling him back in. “Just a minor setback.”

Frantically, I wracked my brain for something else to serve him. There were some kosher hotdogs in the back of the freezer, but they just didn’t seem festive enough. Then I remembered Toodie’s steaks. “I’ve got some steaks in the freezer in the basement. We can defrost them in no time.” I could tell he didn’t want to, but he was too polite to turn me down.

“Here we go,” I said, sidestepping Toodie’s left-handed golf clubs and the broken bike. I tugged on the freezer door but it wouldn’t open. Something seemed to be jamming it. I tried again. Nothing. Oh great. The stupid door won’t budge.

“Ya know, Brandy, I’m not even hungry. Why don’t we just forget dinner?”

“No, no. If you can just give me a hand here.” I picked a golf club out of the bag and nudged it through the door handle. We each grabbed an end and pulled. Nada. “I think we’ve got it. Just one more, good tug and—”

“It’s not doing a bit of good and—look out, the damn thing is tipping over!”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.”

Barry gave up and moved to the side while I continued to battle the door. I yanked as hard as I could and suddenly the freezer pitched forward practically on top of my head. The door flung open, spilling the contents onto the floor.

“Dinner!” I yelled, oblivious to what had tumbled out of the freezer.

Barry stared back at me in unabashed horror.

“What? Oh no, don’t tell me you’re a vegetarian. You should have
told
me you don’t eat meat before I went to all the trouble of opening the door.”

“You’re insane,” he gasped, all signs of civility gone. He began backing away from me, crab-crawling his way to the farthest corner of the room.

“Well, that’s the thanks I get for trying to provide a nice meal for you, and—hey, what’s that leg doing on the floor?” The words were out of my mouth before the thought fully registered. I looked around.
And an arm, and a torso, and—Oh my God!
The sound of my own screams echoed in my ear as the floor rose up to meet me.

“Brandy. Honey, wake up.” The voice belonged to Homicide Detective Robert Anthony DiCarlo of the Philadelphia Police Department. Bobby. What was he doing here? I struggled to open my eyes and found his smoky blue ones staring back at me. My head ached and it took me a few seconds to remember why.

“Bobby,” I croaked, battling a tidal wave of nausea, “there are b-body parts in the f-freezer.” Either the concussion was affecting my speech or I was morphing into Paul.

“I know, honey,” he said, kneeling next to me. “We’re taking care of it.” He felt the back of my head. “Shit. You’re bleeding. Just lie still until the paramedics can check you over.” He tried to sound reassuring, but he couldn’t mask the concern on his face.

I glanced around the basement, which had gotten noticeably more crowded since Barry and I had come down in search of dinner. Apparently, after I’d passed out, Barry called the police and while he was at it, a few of his closest friends from the newsroom. Reporters gathered outside the door while uniformed cops milled around collecting arms and legs, pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that used to be a person. The coroner came in and pronounced the victim dead.
Like it took a genius to figure that out.

A sudden horrifying thought occurred to me. “Bobby, the-the body—it wasn’t Toodie Ventura, was it?”

“Why would you think it was Toodie?”

“Because—” I stopped, too overwhelmed by pain and circumstance to explain.

“Far as I can tell, the victim was female.”

“As far as you could tell?”

“It was—headless.” My stomach pitched a fit at the mental image. Good thing I’d missed dinner.

Bobby stayed by my side while the paramedic checked the crack in my skull. I took this time to study him. He looked wonderful. Dammit. Dark wavy hair, slightly disheveled, five o’clock shadow on his near-perfect face and newly formed muscles traveling up and down his lean, six-foot-one-inch body. Uncle Frankie had told me Bobby was spending a lot of time at the gym lately; seems he’s not too anxious to go home to the lovely Marie. I knew how she must feel. He’s certainly spent the last six weeks avoiding me. I understood why, but it still hurt.

The paramedic finished checking me over. “You should go to the hospital, ma’am. You need stitches.”

I looked beseechingly at Bobby. I’d spent some time at Jefferson last month when a psychopath decided to use me as a human punching bag. I didn’t relish the thought of a return visit. Then again, I couldn’t stay here. I squeezed my eyes shut, but the sight of those chopped up body parts was already implanted in my brain. I felt another wave of nausea coming on and I forced myself to sit up.

“Don’t Barry and I have to give statements or something?” I looked around. Where was Barry, anyway?

“If you’re wondering about your friend, he’s upstairs talking to my partner. And by the way, isn’t he a little old for you?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your concern.” Or mine, for that matter. As soon as Barry saw what came tumbling out of the freezer, he’d looked at me like I was Hannibal Lechter’s first cousin, once removed. I don’t think we’ll be swapping spit any time soon.