No Such Thing as a Free Lunch (No Such Thing As...: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (28 page)

I buzzed the intercom and waited. After a minute a woman’s voice called out to me.

“May I help you?” It had the boozy quality of someone who had spent the better part of the afternoon self medicating. There was a camera located in the corner of the entryway. I looked directly into it and smiled as benignly as possible.

“Hi. I’m looking for Mrs. Stewart. My name is Brandy Alexander and I’m a reporter over at station WINN. Are you Mrs. Stewart?”

The woman who opened the door looked to be sixty going on a hundred. Years of heartache can do that to a person. She greeted me with a smile and dropped ten of those years. “I’ve seen your show,” she said. “My husband thinks you’re adorable.”

Yeah, I’ll just bet he does
. “Listen, Mrs. Stewart, do you mind if I come in for a few minutes? I have something I wanted to discuss with you.”

I would have been surprised if this woman minded anything. She was three sheets to the wind and then some. She furrowed her brow, deep in thought. “My son said something about a reporter the other day, but I can’t seem to recall what it was.” She stepped aside to let me in and led me though a designer decorated living room into the kitchen.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asked. She refilled her glass with ice and splashed some scotch into it.

“Um, no thank you. Listen, Mrs. Stewart, I heard about your husband’s stroke and I’m very sorry. I realize this isn’t a great time for you, and I don’t mean to intrude any more than is absolutely necessary, but I need your help. Your son may have mentioned that I’d been to visit him.”

Mrs. Stewart sat down at the table, drink in hand. “Now I remember. Ethan told me you’d been to see him. You’re here to ask me about Laura and the man who killed her, aren’t you?”

I nodded. “I’m afraid I wasn’t very tactful and I may have upset your son.”
Just a wee understatement.
“Anyway, that wasn’t my intention. It’s just that I have reason to believe that David Dwayne Harmon didn’t murder your daughter.”

Mrs. Stewart sighed deeply, gazing at me through watery eyes. “Ethan is going to be so angry with me. He warned me about reporters coming around, badgering us.” He says our family has been through enough, and he’s right of course… but why are you so convinced that the man is innocent?”

And there’s the rub. I
wasn’t
totally convinced that Harmon
hadn’t
committed the murder. I just wasn’t a hundred percent sure that he had. After talking to Danny Lange I was convinced that the sex between Laura and Harman had been consensual. Maybe her death was an accident. Maybe she forgot her “safe” word and things went too far.

I honestly didn’t know which idea would be more horrifying to this poor woman; the thought that her daughter had been raped, or the idea that she was so emotionally damaged that the only way she could express her anger was through sado-masochistic sex play.

I figured now wouldn’t be a great time to bring up the fact that her husband was a royal “perv” who had been molesting their child, so I switched subjects. “Mrs. Stewart, were you here the day Tamra Rhineholt interviewed your husband?”

“No. I was out to lunch with some friends.”

“Do you remember how he reacted when you got home?”

“My husband was very upset. He even snapped at me, which was unusual. Bill is generally a very patient, loving man. When I was divorced, my son Ethan went to live with his father. But his dad was killed in a boating accident when Ethan was sixteen, so he came to live with us. I’d always had a difficult time with Ethan, but Bill was wonderful. He welcomed Ethan with open arms and was very loving towards him.”

Oh my God. How blind could this woman be? He had to have been molesting Ethan too! No wonder Ethan threw me out of his office. I must have really hit a nerve. Well, that and the fact that I accused him of murder.

“Mrs. Stewart, did your husband talk to you about the nature of his conversation with Tamra Rhineholt?”

She shook her head. “Bill was uncharacteristically withdrawn. He did call Ethan. I think he wanted to spare me whatever it was that Rhineholt woman told him. But he needed to confide in someone. They were in the study when Bill had his stroke. Thank goodness Ethan was there. It was a nightmare. When I entered the room, Bill was on the floor. Ethan said he’d just collapsed and he ordered me to call the paramedics while he tried to revive Bill.”

The booze was really starting to affect her balance. She could barely keep upright. “Did you know that Ethan has decided to move back here while Bill is convalescing? He wants to bring Bill home as soon as possible. He feels he’ll get better sooner if he’s in familiar surroundings. Ethan loves Bill very much. He’s so devoted to him.” She finished off her drink and wobbled over to the sink. “Frankly, uh—what did you say your name was?”

“Brandy.”

“Frankly, Brandy, I’m worried about my son. I think he’s taking on too much. Maybe it’s his way of coping with the trial and Laura’s death. He and Laura were so close.”

She paused, lost in her pain. Suddenly she looked up and smiled. “Laura worshipped her big brother. There’s an eight year difference in age you know. Most older brothers wouldn’t bother with a pesky little sister, but not Ethan. He’d spend hours playing with her, buying her things. He really spoiled her. He used to insist on babysitting for Laura so that Bill and I could spend time alone with each other.”

“Did he really?” I asked, and a gnawing feeling burned in my stomach.

“Oh yes. He was so good to Laura. He used to call her his little kitten.”

“Oh, but I thought Laura’s dad…” The gnawing feeling turned into a full blown nausea as the implication of her words finally hit me
. How could I have been so wrong? It wasn’t Laura’s father who had molested her for all those years. It was her brother! Her brother the doctor.

My mind spun with new possibilities.
What if Harmon told Tamra the nickname Laura went by? Ethan finds out she has this information and panics. So Ethan sets me up to think it was his stepfather’s pet name for her, in order to throw me off track—and Laura’s dad isn’t exactly in a position to argue the point at the moment. When Tamra visited Mr. Stewart, did she tell him she suspected that Ethan had been sexually abusing his sister? Could that have been what prompted his stroke?

The front door opened and in walked Ethan.
Oh shit. Time to go.

“Mother, where are you?” He paused in the kitchen doorway, his look of confusion quickly turning to rage at the sight of me. “I thought I made it clear you were to leave my family alone. I’m calling the police.”

“I was invited in, Dr. Girard.” I looked to Mrs. Stewart for confirmation, but she was draped haphazardly over the sink, puking up her liquid lunch.

“My mother appears to be finished talking with you. I’ll walk you out,” he snapped, taking my elbow.

He silently marched me through the house. It reminded me of the time in fifth grade when my teacher escorted me to the principal’s office because I accidentally called him a turd. But that was only because he was one.

When we got outside, he dropped my elbow. “As you can see, Ms. Alexander, my mother is very fragile. I don’t know what your game is, but I trust you won’t be back here disturbing her again.”

“Actually, I just came here to apologize to you, Dr. Girard. I realize I was way out of line at your office. You’re obviously going through a rough time, what with all the media attention on the Harmon execution and I’m sorry if I added to that stress in any way.”

Girard’s mouth twitched slightly. “Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m very busy.”

“Oh, of course.” I turned to face him, my utter loathing for the man helping to keep my fear at bay. I wanted to expose him for the lying, disgusting, possibly murderous scumbag he was, but I didn’t have it all figured out yet. So I thought I’d stir the pot a little. “By the way, a friend of yours says hello. Craig Newman?”

The mention of Craig’s name seemed to render him speechless. He cleared his throat a couple of times nervously tapping his fingers along the side of his leg while he processed where I might be going with this.

“I don’t know any Craig Newman,” he finally settled on.

“Really? He seems to know you very well. You met at a fundraiser for Helping Hands. Pancake Breakfast… ring any bells?”

“No. I’m sorry. I’m on the board of so many organizations. Really, I need to ask you to leave now. My mother needs me.”

He watched me as I made my way down the driveway and then he turned and walked back into the house. As soon as he was out of sight, I headed back up. His BMW was parked about a hundred feet from the house, so I knelt down to avoid being caught on the security camera. The license plate had caught my eye and I wanted to look at it more closely. To be specific, it wasn’t the license plate itself, but the plastic frame that went around it advertising the place the car had been serviced. Ditto’s Car Repair. Why was I not surprised?

After my encounter with Dr. Sleazeball I really wanted to go home and take a bath, so I could only imagine how Laura must have felt. The adrenalin that had sustained me while I was face to face with him slowly began to fade. I pulled the truck around the block and sat there waiting to feel normal again.

After a minute I realized that wasn’t going to happen, so I pulled out my notepad and started the process of denying my feelings. If I worked, I didn’t think about the danger. And if I didn’t think about the danger, it didn’t exist. Wow. Bobby was right. He really should consider a career in psychology.

I began to peruse my notes. The most frustrating part about all of this was the only person who could have shed some light on Laura’s life was dead. Her therapist was gone, a casualty of what appeared to be a massive cover-up. Laura’s records were gone, and Laura had no close friends she confided in. I had one hope left. It was a long shot, but maybe Dr. Applebaum was highly unprofessional and went around blabbing all of her patients’ secrets to her husband. One could only hope.

I put in a call to Peter Applebaum. His voicemail picked up and I left a message asking him to call me back. That done, I turned to my notebook again. It always came back to connections. How did certain people and events tie in to other people and events?

As I pondered this, it soon became clear that the one person who tied everyone together was Dr. Ethan Girard. I began to construct a plausible scenario. Ethan takes his car in to Ditto’s for repair and runs across Zach Meyers. They get to talking, and Girard senses Meyers can perform other services besides car repair. Meyers is more than happy to accommodate the good doctor—for the right price. Meyers then enlists the aid of Sean McCauly and they set out to kill Tamra. Only the numbnuts confuse me with Tamra and go after the wrong girl.

I thought back to the night of the kidnapping. There was a third man there. The one with the upper crust accent.
Ethan
! No wonder he sounded so familiar when I met him at his office. We’d already met, albeit unofficially, in the trunk of his henchmen’s car.

I felt like I was overlooking a big chunk of the puzzle here, but if what I was beginning to suspect was true, the last place I should be parked was half a block away from Girard’s house. I started the motor and scrammed out of there.

I double parked in front of Franny’s house and hopped out of the car. Although I was feeling better now that one of my would-be assassins was safely ensconced in jail, I still exercised basic safety precautions. I beeped my horn to let Fran know I’d arrived. Then I pulled out my stun gun, defense spray and rape whistle and sprinted the five feet from the curb to her front door.

Fran was on the phone with Janine. “Hang on a second, Neenie.” She covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “Tony Tan break-up crisis. We may need to do an emergency Haagen Dazs run.” She turned back to the phone. “Neenie, I’m not sure that’s legal….no, I didn’t say we
wouldn’t
help you. I’m just not sure where we can get a bucket of tar and feathers at this time of night… Home Depot? Let me ask Brandy.”

“Give me the phone,” I said, holding out my hand. I got on the line. “Janine, you don’t even really like the guy,” I told her. “Remember you said he whistles through his nose while you’re having sex and he uses the word “indeed” in like every other sentence. Only British people should use that word. You’re better off without him. Plus now you can go to the bar mitzvah with me.” I handed the phone back to Franny.

“Is she feeling better?” asked Fran.

“I don’t know. She hung up on me.”

“So, you wanna go get some Haagen Dazs?”

“Nice wheels,” Fran said. We were on our way to the Acme to pick up the ice cream. “Where’s the Le Sabre?”

“Funny story,” I told her. “In fact, I’ve got a couple of funny stories to tell you.”

“Wow,” Fran said an hour later. We sat in the parking lot of the Acme, finishing off a pint each of rum raisin ice cream. It was as close to drinking as Fran allowed herself to get these days. “So you think this Girard guy was doin’ his sister and Tamra found out about it so he arranged to have her killed?”

“It’s starting to look like it. I mean think what it would do to his career if what he was doing to his own sister got out? Assuming Tamra had information to this effect, she could’ve ruined him. Maybe she even threatened to.” I scraped the last of the ice cream out of the carton and yawned.

Franny raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows. “Bran, when was the last time you slept? I thought having your parents in town would help, but you’re starting to resemble the walking dead. Hey, is that why they took you off the air?” Franny was nothing if not direct.

“Probably,” I conceded. “But Eric told me I’d be “more valuable” out in the field, which, roughly translated, means the network doesn’t need another discrimination lawsuit so close on the heels of the last one so they’re humoring me for a bit.”

Franny finished her carton and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Even with an eight pound basketball in her belly, she was still one of the most beautiful women I knew. She was also one of the most intuitive. She fixed me with a look. “There’s something else going on,” she decided, startling me out of my post-rum raisin euphoria. “Something you’re not telling me. I can see it in your eyes.”