No Such Thing as a Secret: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As...A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (18 page)

John chased us through the dining room and stopped short in front of the door. “Will you two just
stop it
? You’re acting like a couple of ten year olds.”

“Well, he started it,” I said, sulkily, but I stopped struggling. I was tired and I just wanted to go back to sleep.

“Bobby, take those stupid cuffs off of her. You’re not going to be safe in your own bed at night if you keep pissing her off like this.”

Warily, Bobby removed the cuffs, keeping a respectful distance from my feet. “Look, do you think I want to treat you this way?” he said quietly. I just don’t know what the hell else to do to get you to back off.”

I rubbed my wrists dramatically, as if I were in a great deal of pain. I may have even winced. “I’ll get you the pictures.” I turned and walked upstairs.

John and Bobby exchanged incredulous looks. “What’s the catch?” Bobby asked, when I returned.

I plunked the photos down in front of him. “No catch.” I opened the front door. “Drop me a postcard some time and let me know how your investigation’s going.”

Bobby pulled the door out of my hand and closed it.

“Now what?”

“I don’t like this,” he said.

“You wanted me to butt out—I’m out. Jeez, there’s just no pleasing some people.”

Ignoring me, Bobby did one of those exasperated air blows and turned to John. “Lay low, John. I’m going to arrange a safe house for you. Not through the cops,” he added. “And don’t tell anyone you’re back.”

This time John and I exchanged looks. “Oh Christ, who have you told? Never mind, I’m sure I can guess.” He gave John one last hug, glared at me and left.

Late afternoon sunlight cast an eerie glow as shriveled pumpkins littered the streets. The day after Halloween is depressing; no candy, no costumes, and only a bunch of sad looking Jack O’Lanterns, their shriveled, moldy faces the only visible remains of the day. I didn’t even want to go out. I was scared. Terrified, was more like it, of leaving the relative safety of my home. The only reason I felt safe inside after all that had happened is I blamed my own stupidity. Hatchet Guy didn’t break in. I had practically issued him an engraved invitation. But outside, who knew what hidden dangers lurked.

“Oh, hi, Mrs. Gentile. Sorry about yesterday. I was feeling a little under the weather.” Mrs. Gentile had emerged from her den at the same time I opened my front door. She cast me her version of the evil eye, which is really hard to do when you have a unibrow, and began depositing her Halloween pumpkins into a trash bag. I often wondered what compelled her to partake of the traditional pumpkin carving ritual. She seemed to glean no joy from life, and yet her holiday spirit was limitless. By tomorrow, she would have the “First Thanksgiving” displayed on her tiny lawn, replete with little plastic pilgrims and Indians and a horn of plenty that took up half the neighborhood. I think the competition is what really drives her. The people on the other side of her are growing their own corn.

John and I decided that I should deliver the good news to everyone, personally. We didn’t trust the phone lines, and I thought a parade of people coming over to the house would raise suspicions, in case it was being watched. Besides, this was bound to be a shock. I wanted to be sure to break the news gently. So I called Paul to tell him I was coming over. He sounded really pleased to hear from me. I know how concerned he’d been about me, and I think too, he missed his car. I told him we’d be over in about an hour, “we” being me and the Mercedes.

The car seemed none the worse for wear from its little trip to the “car pokey.” I pulled up outside Paul’s house and parked. Suddenly, Paul appeared at the door. He came out to greet me as I climbed out of the front seat. As he approached, little furrows began to form on his forehead. He walked up to the car and stuck his head under the front end. Paul is growing a goatee, and it’s in that awkward, in between stage where it looks like he’d stuck his face in a cup of chocolate pudding, and it left a ring around his mouth. He rubbed his chin and scratched himself absently. I began to get nervous.

“What did you do to my car?” he asked, his voice an octave higher than usual. He was trying really hard to sound casual, but it put a strain on his vocal chords.

“What do you mean?”

He beckoned me with his finger, inviting me to take a look under the front end. Oh Shit. There was a little scrape of paint, about the size of a thumbnail, where the tow truck had attached itself.

“I don’t see anything.”

“Really? It’s right there, plain as day.”

“John’s alive!” I blurted out. Anything to get the heat off me.

Frank was next. I pulled into the gym parking lot and glanced around quickly as I got out of the car. The gym was noisy and hot. Large, sweaty men in boxing trunks danced in front of mirrors, sparring with invisible partners. In the center ring, two young men in their early twenties took turns pummeling each other with equal parts bravado and muscle. One reminded me of Bobby at that age, all raw energy and untrained talent.

Uncle Frankie stood off to the side, watching them. He looked up when he heard his name and smiled at me in greeting. “Remind you of anyone?” he asked, thrusting his chin towards the kid in the black trunks.

I kissed him on the cheek and stood watching a moment too. “I’ve got to talk to you, Frankie. Can we go into your office?”

Concern flashed across his handsome face. “Are you all right? You didn’t do anything to Paul’s car, did you?”

I laughed. The car is fine. I’m fine, but there’s something you should know.”

I saved Franny and Janine for last. We agreed to meet for an early dinner at a little Mexican restaurant near Fran’s office. Janine had been out researching jobs all day and was in the neighborhood. I arrived shortly after they did and sat down next to Janine in the black naughahyde booth. Fran was sipping a coke, while Janine wrestled with a Margarita the size of her head. I eyed the Margarita longingly and then ordered a root beer. After all, I had to have my wits about me when I met up with Nick, later. I guess almost getting hauled off to jail by one’s ex boyfriend isn’t the deterrent Bobby had been hoping it would be. The way I figured it, “almost” doesn’t count.

Janine took a sip of her drink. She had to stand up to get a decent angle on it. “What’s with you two?”

“What do you mean?” we asked, all wide-eyed innocence.

The waiter strolled over carrying a basket of hot, greasy chips and salsa. The salsa looked like the kind that came out of a jar from the supermarket. He plunked it down in front of us and I stuck my nose up close and sniffed. I shrugged and dipped my chip.

“Why didn’t you order a real drink?” Janine said.

“This is a real drink.”

Janine turned to Franny. “Now
you
I can understand, what with you being pregnant and all.”

“Excuse me?” said Fran, her eyes nearly popping out of her head. She kicked me under the table, hard.

“Ow!”

“Don’t go kicking her, Franny. She didn’t tell me. I’m your twin, for God’s sake. We have that special twin thing between us. You didn’t think I would instinctively know about this?”

“Eddie opened his big mouth, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, he did,” Janine squealed. She reached across the table to embrace her sister. “Oh my God, Oh my God, I’m going to be an aunt!”

“Okay, Neenie,” Fran said, invoking Janine’s childhood nickname. “Just don’t tell mom.”

“Yeah, I know,” Janine said, rolling her eyes. “She thinks you’re a virgin.”

I reached over and grabbed another grease-laden chip and popped it into my mouth, washing it down with root beer.

“Okay, so what’s
your
excuse?”

And so I told them.

John was asleep in my parents’ room when I got back. I tried to take a nap as well, but I was too keyed up to sleep. Besides, I wasn’t that anxious to close my eyes. Vivid scenes of the night before kept running through my head like a grade B slasher movie, and I wondered if I’d ever feel safe again. Which led me to ponder why on God’s earth I would keep pursuing this. As Bobby pointed out, John was alive, I’m not a professional crime fighter, and if the truth be known, I am just about the most chicken hearted person I know. It is totally in my nature to run away from danger. Let someone else deal with the murderers, rapists, and general miscreants of society. Why then did I embrace this as my personal raison d’etre?
Because someone tried to hurt my friend, and I was hell-bent on getting the bastard.

John awoke at a little after seven p.m. I was standing in the kitchen making a grilled cheese sandwich when he stumbled in. He was still in my father’s enormous sweat pants, which made him look like he was shrinking. He sat down at the table and eyed the sandwich. “Is that for me?” he asked, hopefully.

I sighed. “It is now.” I make the world’s best grilled cheese sandwiches. I use white cheddar and sour dough bread, lots of butter, and if I really want to get fancy I add roasted red peppers for extra flavor. I moved it off the pan onto a plate and put it down in front of him.

“Oh, I couldn’t eat your dinner,” he protested. But he picked up the sandwich and began munching away. “This is amazing.”

“I know,” I answered, sadly. There wasn’t enough time to make another one. I had to get ready to go meet Nick.

“When did you get back?” John asked, wiping the grease off his chin, and making utterly obscene noises over the sandwich.

“About an hour ago.”

“Did you sleep?”

I shook my head, no. He opened his mouth to comment and I could see he was revving up for a real “mommy” lecture. I stopped him with my hand to his shoulder. “I can’t, John. Not yet. When I’m tired enough it’ll happen.”

“And what if it doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll go talk to somebody. I promise.” In Los Angeles, anybody who’s anybody has a therapist. Well, that and a personal trainer.

While John ate I finished cleaning up the kitchen and filled him in on my afternoon. Everybody wanted to see him, but they understood the importance of keeping a distance.

“I hate to leave you alone, tonight.” I said.

John looked up. “Where are you going?”

“I told you, I’m meeting Nick and we’re going to the club to show the pictures around.”

“But you gave the pictures to Bobby.”

“That’s right,” I smiled.

He thought about this for a minute. “You made another copy.”

I smiled again.

“I suppose it would be pointless to try and talk you out of this.”

“I suppose it would. So what do I wear to a joint like this?” I said, changing the subject. “Should I slick my hair back and do the macho-chic look, or do I dress up for the occasion, maybe go with the whole Liza Minelli cabaret thing.”

John looked like he was about to gag on his last bite of sandwich. “How about you go with a paper bag over your head and under no circumstances mention that we know each other.”

“Now is that nice? And after I fed you and everything.” I decided to play it very understated, and just went with a fresh pair of jeans and a sweater. Big surprise.

T
he lights were on in Nick’s studio, but with the mirrored window I couldn’t see inside. No way was I getting out of the car unless I was sure he was in there, so I kept the engine running and pawed through my bag until I came up with his phone number. Nick answered on the second ring. His voice was low and sleepy and thoroughly seductive, and I felt a sudden tingling sensation in my lower regions. Damn, this was starting to become a habit.

“Um, Nick?” I said, brightly. “It’s Brandy.”

“Hey,” came his soft reply, and it sounded like he was smiling. “Where are you?”

“Parked outside.” There was a moment of silence as he disconnected, and then the door opened and he beckoned me forward.

He was wearing a black silk shirt, open at the top, and charcoal colored pants. His hair was tied in a loose ponytail, so that the ends were all wild and sticking out. A long strand flopped over his eye and he brushed it out of the way, loosening the rubberband so that his hair fell softly around his face.

As I began to walk toward him, shyness overtook me. He really was beautiful. I don’t mean your every day pretty boy model type. I’d seen enough of those in Hollywood to last until the next millennium. No, there was a tangible aura about this man, an almost hypnotic quality that reached out and grabbed at my heart. The more I tried to relax the more I felt myself stiffen, until I was walking like a tin soldier in a tiny pretend parade.

He kept his eyes on me the entire time; gorgeous, almond shaped eyes that crinkled when he smiled. He was clean-shaven, and he smelled faintly of cologne, something exotic and wonderful. He was still wearing the silver band around his wrist and the tiny silver cross, but now he also wore a thin silver chain around his neck. I finally reached the door, and he stepped aside to let me in. He looked like a really well dressed Adonis, while I had the appearance of a fourteen year old, just getting back from a pep rally. It made me wish I had gone with the whole Liza Minelli extravaganza.

I walked into the studio. The entire room was comprised of mirrors, which only accentuated how dorky I felt. Now I could criticize myself from every angle. Nick sensed my discomfort and seemed amused by it.

“So,” I said, folding my arms across my chest in a vain attempt at casualness, “are you ready to roll?”
Oh my God, who was writing my dialogue? Starsky and Hutch?

“Just about. I’ve just got to grab my keys and my wallet. Come on back with me.”

I followed him into his office. As he picked up his keys from the desk, his phone rang. He scanned the caller I.D. “Sorry,” he said, gesturing for me to take a seat. “I’ve got to take this.”

“Do you want me to wait outside?”

He shook his head no, so I sat back in the comfy red velvet chair and pretended I wasn’t listening in. He was talking to someone named Vanessa, asking her how she felt and what her plans were for tomorrow. He sounded all sexy and flirty, and it made me wonder if she was his girlfriend. No, Nick didn’t strike me as the type to limit himself to one woman. He probably had dozens lined up at his door, so that when he got tired of one, he could just usher in the next one. She was probably gorgeous though, with long legs and shiny hair. I’ll bet Vanessa wouldn’t have shown up on his doorstep tonight wearing some infantile outfit. She’d have gone with some backless, slinky dress with a slit up the side, to accentuate her long legs. God, I was really beginning to hate her.