No Such Thing as a Secret: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As...A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (2 page)

“I came home that night and I couldn’t sleep, so I developed the pictures. So the next day, I’m watching the news, and they show a picture of this guy. He’d been found floating face down near Boathouse Row. He’d been badly beaten, and he appeared to have been strangled. Well, he looked really familiar to me, and then it dawned on me where I’d seen him. So I started going over the pictures of the party, and sure enough, he was in a few of them.”

“He was a guest at the party?”

“No, he was in some of the background shots, sitting next to some other guy. Well, I freak out thinkin’ that maybe the guy he was with could be the murderer, so I decided to call the police.” In answer to my unspoken question, John added, “I didn’t call Bobby. He’s been out of town.”

At the mention of Bobby’s name I felt the old familiar pangs. Homicide detective, Robert Anthony DiCarlo, had been the love of my life since I was fourteen years old. We grew up together. For ten years we were soul mates, partners in crime, and eventually, lovers. He
was
my life, the person I trusted more than anyone else in the world. And then he left me.

Sensing my shift in focus, Johnny waved a hand in front of my face. “Brandy, snap out of it! You can whine about your crappy love life later. I could be in trouble here.”

“Sorry. So what happened next?”

“Well, like I said, I called the police and talked to the cop who’s in charge of the investigation. I told him about the pictures, and he said he’d come over to collect them. About a half hour later this plainclothes detective shows up at my door. I explained to him how I came about having the pictures, and he asked me a few questions, like, did I have any other copies, and did I show the photos to anyone. I told him that I had just developed the shots and hadn’t had a chance to show anybody. He said that was good, because these investigations are very sensitive and discretion was of the utmost importance.” John shrugged. “He was being super cautious. You know, making sure there are no leaks in the investigation that could come back to bite him in the ass. There’s been a lot of press lately about corruption within the police department.”

“When isn’t there?”

“True, but you know how accusations come crawling out of the woodwork during election years. Makes it hard for the incumbent mayor to concentrate on winning his next post when he’s so busy defending his current one.”

“So, you think the allegations are bogus?”

“Hell, no,” John replied, cheerfully. “I’m just saying that with all the watchdog agencies in this town, a cop couldn’t take a crap without it being analyzed by four different commissions.”

I digested what John had told me. “So, what happened after he took the photographs?”

“Nothing. He told me he’d be in touch. And he warned me again not to speak to anyone else about it, and then he left.”

“So, if that’s all that happened, why the paranoia?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Johnny replied, dragging my bags onto the curb. “Maybe I
am
just being paranoid, but for the past few days I could swear I’m being followed.”

“John, the guy in the tan jacket has a kid with an incontinence problem. I don’t think he has time to follow you around.”

“Shut uh-up.” John’s answer to most of my “Life Observations” is to tell me to ‘shut uh-up.’ But this time he was serious.

“You really are scared, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I am. I just have this creepy feeling that I’m being watched. Two days ago, I even thought someone had been in my apartment.”

“Was anything missing?”

“No. There were just some things out of place. No one would have noticed it but me.” Now there was an understatement. John is an obsessive-compulsive neat freak. An improperly placed pillow could put him in a funk for days.

“And then yesterday I noticed a black SUV parked a few buildings down from my place. As I crossed the street it started moving, and I swear it tried to run me over. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Just figured the guy was drunk or else a really bad driver. But then I saw the same SUV again, parked at my gym.”

I didn’t want to ask him how he knew it was the same car, when half the east coast and all of the west coast owns black SUVs.

We reached the entrance of the parking lot and Johnny began searching around for his car. About forty black SUVs blocked his view. “I’m parked up there,” he announced, missing the irony.

John has a brand new BMW, which he calls his “baby.” In an effort to keep his baby dent-free, he carefully selected the most deserted spot in the lot. Just as I thought I’d have to call a cab to get us there, we heard the squeal of approaching tires.

A car came barreling out of nowhere. It was an old Ford, battleship gray. It was missing a headlight, which gave the impression that it was winking at us, as if to say, “If I run you down, you know it’s all in good fun.” I knocked John sideways, falling on top of him. We rolled out of the way as the Ford slowed to a crawl and stopped, inches from us.

As Johnny and I struggled to an upright position, the car door creaked open. I could feel John’s ragged breath in my ear. He grabbed my hand, ready to bolt. In the next instant, two shriveled up nuns climbed out of the car. They must’ve been about a hundred years old apiece. One had a cane, which she used to poke us with.

“Are you kids alright?”

“I think so.” My arm throbbed where I’d landed on it.

“I’m so sorry,” said the driver. “We just rented this car from Drive a Jalopy. I’m not used to all the modern conveniences.” By the looks of her, a rumble seat would’ve passed for a modern convenience.

“Forget about it,” John told her, relief etched on his face. “No harm done.”

“Hey.” The one with the cane peered at me through imitation Ray Bans. “Aren’t you that reporter from the Early Edition News in L.A.? We
love
you. Don’t we love her, Alice? That piece on sexy lingerie was a real eye- opener.”

“I’m so glad you like our show,” I replied, slightly dazed.

“Is it true Brian Murphy wears a toupee?” Brian Murphy is the lead reporter on our show and an incredible narcissist. He once held up a live newscast for five minutes while he flossed.

“Yes, it’s true,” I said. “Write to him and tell him how natural it looks. He’ll really appreciate that.”

After extracting my autograph and a promise to “do lunch” when we got back to L.A., Our Ladies of the Death Mobile ambled back to their car. “So,” I said to John as they drove off, “do you think they’re the ones who broke into your apartment?”

“Shut-uh-up!”

John swung onto the I-95 and headed south. After assuring him that no, I did not think he was crazy, and yes, I had faith that the Philadelphia police force would keep him out of harm’s way, he relaxed into his leather seat and turned the radio up full blast. I amused myself with the newspaper John had swiped off the sleeping, homeless guy.

“Oh, this is interesting.” I read aloud.

Mayor Vows to Clean up City

Taking a page out of former New York mayor Rudy Guiliani’s book, Philadelphia mayor, Bradley Richardson has pledged “a return to ‘family values’ for the city of brotherly love.” Richardson, an outspoken conservative, has targeted many local establishments that cater to the fringe population. At a recent press conference the mayor stated, “Families deserve a decent place to raise their children. There is no room in our city for drug pushers, prostitutes, or perverts.”

I stopped reading. “Is this guy for real?”

“Afraid so. He ran a very successful family values campaign, and he’s not about to get off the gravy train any time soon. Personally, I think the mayor doth protest too much.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know those super repressed types are always so conflicted. I wouldn’t be surprised if he went to bed at night with a bible tucked under one arm and a copy of Male Hustler under the other.”

“All that angst must make for a very crowded bed.”

Twenty-five minutes later, we were almost home. I swear I could smell the melted Cheez Whiz calling to me from Pat’s Steaks at Ninth and Wharton. Signs of Halloween began springing up on every porch. The closer we got to my old neighborhood, the more festive it became. Skeletons, Jack O’Lanterns and ghosts greeted passersby with macabre cheerfulness. People in these parts take their holidays very seriously.

We passed Saint Dominic’s church, where my mother had been baptized, and Manny’s Delicatessen, where my father had his own religious experience over lox and bagels—his way of getting in touch with his Jewish roots.

My dad is what he refers to as a cultural Jew and what my mom calls a Jew of convenience, meaning he’s not big on schlepping to the synagogue on the high holy days, but he has a vested interest in the meals that come afterwards. When my brother and I came along, my mother laid quick claim to our immortal souls, and, before my dad could say “gefelte fish,” we were launched into the world of Roman Catholicism. Well, fair’s fair. Mom did do all the legwork by going to church every Sunday.

To that end, when I was six I was trundled off to Saint Dom’s for a proper parochial school education. I lasted there about two weeks. At first, I loved all the pomp and circumstance, the uniforms, the statues. But being the curious kid I was, I began to ask questions when things didn’t make sense to me. I didn’t know my questions would throw the teachers into such a tizzy. I just assumed everyone else wanted to know exactly how immaculate conception worked and where Mary’s husband fit into the scheme of things. I hadn’t quite gotten the concept of blind faith yet.

It wasn’t long before I’d worn out my welcome, and the nuns suggested I might be better suited for public school. Paulie, at eight, had fared worse than I did. After going just one day, he’d decided he hated parochial school, and he began showing up for class in a yarmulke he’d found in the back of my father’s drawer, with the words “Coen Bros. Mortuary” stamped on the back. After a week of this, it was suggested that he too would be better suited elsewhere.

I felt a little disappointed. I’d really looked forward to my first communion. I’d already gotten the dress, a lacy white frock with matching gloves. I decided to go ahead with the communion anyway, and invited all the neighborhood kids to my backyard to “watch me get married to Jesus.” As this was a wedding of sorts, I urged them to bring gifts and enticed them with cake. It was a lovely affair. Being a somewhat enterprising child, I also enjoyed a profitable, if not entirely kosher, Bat Mitzvah.

“Okay, doll face, you can open your eyes.” We were standing on the porch of my parents’ home, the house I’d grown up in. The houses in my neighborhood are cramped, narrow, brick structures called row homes. They are linked together by common walls, the better to hear your neighbors and be able to keep tabs on them. Many of these houses were built in the nineteen thirties. People were shorter then, I suppose, and didn’t require as much space.

There’s a trend in some of the more upscale South Philly neighborhoods to buy the house next door and knock down the adjoining wall. This is not the case on my block, where limited income and tradition prevail. My house is at the end of the block, on one of the few streets that have an actual, albeit miniscule lawn.

When we exited the car, Johnny insisted that I close my eyes as he led me up the three short steps to the front door. Nostalgia washed over me as I breathed in the smell of my neighborhood. Four years is a long time to be gone from a place you love. I heard some shuffling, and then, “Surprise!”

My eyes flew open, and I was engulfed in a sea of arms. My brother, Paul, scooped me up and hugged me breathless. Over the top of his curly, dark hair I could make out the faces of the twins, Franny and Janine. Franny, definitely not a morning person, was wrapped in a ratty, old, pink robe. On her feet were oversized Homer Simpson slippers. Janine was still in her waitress uniform, having just gotten off the night shift at the “24 Hour Diner.” My favorite uncle, Frankie, was there too and his girlfriend, Carla Marie. It was seven thirty in the morning and they were all there to greet me.

“Yo, Paulie, let her down so the rest of us can see her,” yelled Uncle Frankie. As Paul lowered me to the ground I gazed around at my friends and family. Emotion beat the life out of any sarcastic cover-up comment I could utter and I burst into tears.

“You guys…” I gulped. “You didn’t have to…you’re just the best!”

“Hey, did you really think you could sneak back into town without the Welcome Wagon? Come here, honey.” Uncle Frankie enfolded me in his massive arms and kissed me on the top of my head. “I know you talked to your parents, but they wanted me to tell you again how sorry they are they can’t be here for you. What with your dad’s leg being in a cast, it’s gonna be awhile before he can travel.” My dad joined a bowling team in Boca, last week. Two days later he tripped over his bowling ball and broke his leg. I get my stellar coordination from his side of the family.

“Okay, my turn.” Carla nudged Uncle Frankie aside and clasped me to her ample chest. My nose caught in her lacquered hair and I nearly choked on the fumes. Carla’s a hairdresser, and she makes the most out of the discounts she receives on hair products.

Carla and Uncle Frankie met a few years ago at an AA meeting. She’s thirty-seven, three years younger than my uncle. Until I came along to usurp the position, Frankie was considered the lovable screw up of the family. Twenty years younger than my mother, he grew up with the benevolent disinterest of older parents who loved him, but just didn’t have a lot of energy to devote to their “little surprise package.” By the time my uncle turned thirty, he’d been married and divorced twice, served a little time for B&E and was headed in the general direction of hell in a hand basket. But Carla changed all that. He’s absolutely devoted to her.

We trooped into the living room, everyone talking at once. Franny flashed me her engagement ring, a Princess cut diamond the size of a grapefruit. Her fiancé, Eddie, is in the jewelry business and obviously does not ascribe to the theory that less is more.