No Such Thing as a Secret: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As...A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (16 page)

“I believe you have information about John’s death that the police don’t have.”

I stared back at him with equal resolve. “And what if I do? Would you blame me for not wanting to hand it over to them? How the hell am I supposed to know who to trust?”

The hurt in his eyes betrayed the calm in his voice. “You still don’t trust me?”

Professionally, I trusted him with my life. Emotionally,
not so much
. I answered with my heart. “How can we talk about trust when we don’t even know each other anymore?”

I stood up and busied myself at the sink. Bobby climbed out of the chair and walked towards me, stopping when he was a hair’s breath away. I turned and he trapped me at the sink, bracing himself with his arms on either side of me. He willed me to look at him and our eyes locked.

“I know you.” His voice was low and seductive. “You can’t go to bed without a night light and you talk in your sleep. You love baseball and boxing, but you only watch hockey when the Flyers are in the playoffs. Your idols are Morris Dees, Edward R. Murrow and Sandy Koufax. You won’t watch the Godfather movies because you can’t stand abuse of power.”

He leaned in even closer and I squirmed away, breaking eye contact. He held my chin in his hands forcing me to look at him. Tiny rivulets of sweat began forming between my breasts, and I tried my best to ignore it. “You cry when they play the Canadian National Anthem. Your secret fear is being an old lady and having to eat alone in a restaurant. Your favorite fictional character is Junie B. Jones. Favorite movie, Rocky, favorite book, Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café. Favorite holiday, Christmas. Favorite color, green.”

I gulped, barely breathing. “Red. See, you don’t know me at all.”

Bobby pushed himself off of the counter, leaving me shaken and weak-kneed.

“You’re a real ball buster, ya know that?” He stuck his hand into the candy bowl and jammed a fistful of chocolates into his pocket. A defiant, “fuck you” gesture.

I stopped him before he reached the front door. “What do you want from me, Bobby?” I looked into his eyes and his pain was palpable.

“I want to be your friend again.”

The doorbell rang, effectively ending our conversation. Twin ballerinas stood at the storm door, their tutus peeking out through winter coats. Behind them stood Franny.

“Trick or Treat,” they shouted in unison.

Bobby brushed by them, giving a slight nod to Franny as he passed.

“Yo, Bobby, where ya running off to?”

“Got people to see, Fran.”

I shook my head slightly, a sign to let him go. Franny made her way through the front door as I shared my precious stash with the little girls. Three more kids showed up after that, and then things quieted down for a few minutes. I walked back into the kitchen and popped the rest of the lasagna into the microwave. I grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator for me and a soda for Franny.

“You want to tell me what DiCarlo was doing here, or should I guess?”

“You couldn’t possibly.” Franny pulled on the soda and made a face. “I want a beer.”

“Nobody told you to have sex, young lady. Now you’ll just have to pay the consequences.”

Franny answered me with her middle finger and took another swig of soda.

We managed to consume the entire pan of lasagna, while I filled her in about Bobby. I may have even mentioned the parts that I swore I wouldn’t tell anyone about. But that was to be expected. I tell Franny everything.

“Oh my God, that poor guy. He never mentioned a word. Although I don’t think it’s much of a shock to anyone. The marriage was a mistake from the start. Well, that explains his mood lately.”

“Why didn’t he say anything to anyone?” I asked.

“Brandy, It’s Bobby we’re talking about. Mr. ‘Suffer in Silence’ Guy. He’s not all that much different than when we were kids. If anything, he’s gotten worse.” She got up to go to the bathroom. “I have to pee every fifteen minutes, these days,” she complained.

When she returned, she picked up the dishes and began filling the sink with dish washing liquid. “Y’know, Bobby’s probably confided more in you in the last hour than he has to any of us in the past four years. And if I know DiCarlo, he’s blaming himself for what happened to Johnny.”

“But why? He couldn’t possibly have known what would happen to John.”

“Eddie says he’s got an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. Probably because he had to grow up so fast.”

I didn’t want to talk about Bobby right now. It was too confusing. I needed some private time to think about it. “Fran,” I asked, changing the subject, “have you ever heard of a guy named Nicholas Santiago?”

She thought this over for a minute. “No, why?”

So I told her. Everything. From the way he looked at me, to the way my entire body responded to the touch of his hand on the back of my neck. “Oh my God, Franny, I could like
totall
y become his sex slave.”

Fran snorted. “Yeah, right. How many times have you had sex since you broke up with Bobby?”

I changed the subject again. Some things are just too humiliating to dwell on.

We spent the evening doling out chocolates to the neighborhood munchkins. In between, we watched
Nightmare on Elm Street
and then something even scarier.

“What’s this?” Fran had been rummaging through my parents’ videotapes, searching for something to watch. She held up a tape marked “Brandy.”

“It’s nothing,” I said and tried to grab the tape from her hands.

“Nothing, huh?” She held the tape high above me, taunting me with her height. I would have pushed her down, but since she was pregnant it wasn’t an option. She bent over the VCR and popped the tape in.

“I hate you,” I said, folding my arms across my chest.

Franny grinned. “Wow, I must’ve hit the jackpot.”

A minute later there I was, big as television life, decked out in a poodle skirt and white socks. My hair was done up in a nineteen fifties “flip,” and as if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, I was wearing pearls.

“This is Brandy Alexander, appearing live on the set of “American Memories,” I announced in a generic voice, devoid of all regional accent. “Early Edition News in L.A. will be taking you on an exclusive, ‘behind the scenes’ tour of this very popular show. So, stay tuned for the hula hoop contest, up next!” I ended with a toss of my hair and a big toothy grin.

Franny howled with laughter. “Hey, what’d you do with your accent? You sound like a frigggin’ debutante.”

“I swear to God, Franny, if you tell anyone about this, I’ll spread it all over town what you did in high school with Jack Passetti, in the bathroom on prom night.”

“Oh, fine,” Franny relented. “But how come I never saw this? We’re best friends. This is the embarrassing shit we’re supposed to share with each other.”

“I was going to give it to you as a wedding gift, but you’ve ruined the surprise.”

Franny left at nine thirty p.m. We hadn’t gotten any more trick or treaters in about half an hour and all the candy was gone. After she left I went in and finished cleaning up the kitchen. I let the lasagna pan soak and scrubbed the microwave so that it didn’t smell like burnt tomatoes anymore. Then, I poked my head into the freezer to see if I’d left any frozen Milky Ways in there. I like to have a bedtime snack. There weren’t any and I was really disappointed. I’d gotten my taste buds all worked up for something sweet.

In the corner on the lower shelf, tucked behind some frozen broccoli, I found a plastic bag with something brick hard, inside. I took it out and examined the contents. It was my mother’s famous fruitcake. She made it every Christmas, and for the entire next year it sat in the freezer until she made a replacement, at which time the old one would be thrown away. It was tradition, my mother’s way of ringing in the New Year. I put the fruitcake back in the plastic bag. I wasn’t that desperate…or was I? Just in case I was, I took it upstairs with me.

My plan was to climb into bed and stay there. I was going to get a good night’s sleep if it killed me. Just then, the doorbell rang. I glanced at the clock. Ten thirty. “Unhhh.” I padded downstairs in my bare feet and looked out the peephole. Someone was standing on the porch, wearing one of those “Scream” costumes that were popular a few years ago. He stood about five feet six, and he held a trick or treat bag in one hand and a plastic hatchet in the other. His voice was muffled behind the mask. “Trick or treat.”

“I’m sorry, there’s no more candy,” I yelled through the door.

He rang the bell again.

“No more candy,” I repeated.

“Trick or treat.” Boy, he sure was persistent. Maybe he couldn’t hear me.

I opened the heavy front door, forgetting that when Franny had left I’d forgotten to lock the storm door. “No more—”

The storm door swung open with a terrifying force. I tried to slam the big wooden door shut, but he shoved it back open with his shoulder. Before I could blink, he was in the house, brandishing the hatchet. In the light of the foyer it didn’t look so plastic anymore. I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out. At the moment the irony was lost on me, so I turned and began running haphazardly through the house, frantically searching for an escape route. He came barreling towards me, the sharp edge of the all too real hatchet narrowly missing my arm.

Dizziness and nausea swept over me as I zigzagged through the dining room. My elbow banged against a dining room chair, and I grabbed the back of it and flung it at my attacker. He stopped, momentarily dazed, and I raced up the stairs two at a time. If I could just reach the bedroom, I could lock myself in and call the police.

Panting, my lungs about to burst, I reached the last step. He was right behind me, so I tucked and rolled, propelling myself into the bedroom. I kicked the door closed with my foot, grabbed the lock and twisted it. Shaking violently, I grabbed lunged for the phone.

Wham! The hatchet hit the door with unbelievable force. It splintered the wood and got stuck in there. A gloved hand reached out and smashed through the hole, unlocking the door. It swung open, and I stepped backwards towards the bed. He was panting heavily and he smelled like grain alcohol. Through the eyeholes of his mask, two crazed eyes peered out at me. I swept the room, looking for something, anything to defend myself with.

Then I saw it, the frozen fruitcake. My hand automatically reached out and grabbed it. I twisted the bag around my hand, hefting the rock solid brick into the air. I began to swing it over my head, and as it gained momentum I launched the sucker. It hit him squarely in the temple, and he went down like a sack of potatoes.

I couldn’t tell if he was knocked out or merely stunned, but I wasn’t about to stick around to find out. I bolted down the stairs, grabbed my bag off the hallway table and blasted through the storm door.

The adrenaline rush that had gotten me out of the house began to fade. With trembling hands I unlocked Paul’s car and crawled in. Locking the door behind me, I punched in 911 on the cell, and then I sat with my head between my knees and waited for the nausea to pass.

About ten minutes later, although it seemed like an hour, a patrol car pulled up behind me, its headlights illuminating the inside of the car. I climbed out and walked unsteadily over to the officers. One took my statement while the other searched the house, weapon drawn. My statement sounded ridiculous, even to me. A guy in a Halloween suit attacks me with a hatchet and I hit him with a fruitcake, rendering him unconscious.

From across the street, I could see the other officer searching the grounds, his beam of light making wide circles on the lawn. In a few minutes he came over to give us an update on his findings. It was a brief report. There were no findings. The guy was gone, the hatchet was gone, and did I maybe have a little too much to drink tonight and get into a domestic squabble with my boyfriend? I wondered if they could arrest me for saying “fuck you” to an officer of the law. I decided to take my chances. They chalked it up to “the vino talking” and encouraged me to sleep it off.

I waited for “Chief Wiggum” and his cop crony to pull away from the curb and then, very reluctantly, I reentered the house. It was surreal. For the second time today someone had tried to kill me. I mean a person could go an entire lifetime without that happening.

Jeez, what are the odds?

I simply could not bring myself to stay here alone. I ran upstairs and began throwing clothes into an overnight bag. I would call Paul and tell him he was getting a roomie for the night. No, he wasn’t up to speed on anything. Why worry him? Franny? Eddie would tell Bobby. Janine. As I debated the best person to call, I heard a soft noise behind me. Before I could turn around, a hand reached out and grabbed my shoulder and I screamed and kept on screaming. The hand clamped me on the mouth as I struggled to get away. I twisted around, freeing myself from his grasp, and then I screamed some more.

“Shut uh-up!” It was the last thing I heard before my head hit the ground.

T
hey say that when you are about to die, your life flashes before your eyes. Maybe I was having one of those moments. I could have sworn I saw John’s face; heard him tell me to “shut up” before I headed towards that final oblivision. Only I wasn’t dead. My head hurt too much to be dead. And apparently, neither was Johnny. He peered down at me with grave concern.

“Brandy, for Christ’s sake, get up. I need to talk to you.”

I forced my eyes open, willing them to focus on the figure hovering above me. “Oh my God,” I whispered. “You’re alive.” I scrambled to my feet and threw my arms around him, nearly knocking him over. “I can’t believe it. The boat—the explosion, how did you—” My body vibrated with shock as I tried to croak out a complete sentence.

John carefully disengaged my arms from around his neck and sat down on the edge of my bed. He gently pulled me down next to him. He was dressed in the same outfit he’d worn the last time I’d seen him. It was unfathomable that only two days had passed since then. His clothes were disheveled and stained and smelled like cherry tobacco. I’d never seen John look anything less than immaculate and that, more than anything, disturbed me.