No Such Thing as a Free Lunch (No Such Thing As...: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (3 page)

Two seconds later the doorbell rang. I fought the urge to throw up and inched over to the hallway. “Who is it?” I asked, standing on tiptoe to peer out the spyglass.

“Surprise!”

Relief and gratitude flooded through me as I yanked open the door. Standing on the top step was John, all five feet, three inches of him. Crowded in next to him were Franny, Janine and Carla. Carla held a casserole dish in her manicured hands. Her lacquered beehive shot straight up from her head, rivaling Marge Simpson’s for world’s tallest protein-based structure. Uncle Frankie stood on the next step down, and lagging a few feet behind him was Bobby, carrying a couple of six-packs of Rolling Rock and a bottle of black cherry soda. Janine was toting a large shopping bag filled with brightly wrapped packages.

“What’s all this?” I asked, stepping aside as everyone trooped in. Adrian began to bark and run around in delighted circles, while my gray and white kitten, Rocky, hid behind the china cabinet, licking the paste off the peeling wallpaper.

“Consider it a housewarming party,” Franny announced.

“Oh, goody. What’s the theme?” I was thinking I could really use a new can opener. The other one broke when I tried to open a quart of paint with it. Actually, it had done the trick, but now everything tastes like enamel.

“Home security,” Bobby said, sitting down on the couch. He popped a beer and stuck his boot-clad feet up on the coffee table, settling in.

“Yeah,” Carla added. “Since you won’t admit you’ve been afraid to stay here alone, we decided to get you things to make you feel safer.”

I rolled my eyes in a big show of denial, but it was really to keep from crying. These were the people who loved me and they showed me on a daily basis.

“Paul says he’s sorry to miss the party, but he had to go see the rabbi tonight,” Frankie said. “I think he’s really nervous about getting up in front of all those people.” My brother has a little problem with stuttering. He’s usually okay, but once he gets rolling, he sounds like an AK-47.

Carla wrestled the half -an -oven -mitt away from Adrian and headed for the kitchen with the casserole dish, while I set about trying to find enough forks and plates. John came up behind me, throwing a skinny arm around my shoulder. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

I looked around at my house filled with friends. “I am now.”

The phone rang in the middle of dinner and I let the answering machine pick it up. There’s not a whole lot that can separate me from a plate of my uncle’s homemade lasagna.

After we ate, everyone settled on the couch to watch me open up my gifts. Janine bought me some pepper spray and Franny got me a stun gun that was shaped like a cell phone. Then Uncle Frankie started playing with it and almost zapped himself, so Carla made him put it away. Johnny got me a subscription to “Guns and Ammo,” but judging by the male models on the cover, I think it was more of a present for him than for me.

“Mind if I borrow that when you’re done?” he asked, confirming my suspicions.

Paul, Carla and Frankie chipped in for an alarm system for the house and Bobby arranged for some target practice over at the police station. “I’m not advocating that you get a gun,” he said. “I know they freak you out, and frankly, I don’t think it’s a great idea for the general public to be armed. But I want you to know what to do, in case you’re ever in a situation where you need to use one.”

I nodded, painfully aware that the situation had already come up more than once.

At around eleven p.m. everyone began shuffling towards the door. Bobby remained rooted to the couch, legs still stretched out on the coffee table, draining his beer. His smoky blue eyes were closed, his head resting against the back cushions.

“You coming, DiCarlo?” There was a faint warning tone in my uncle’s voice, and it made me smile inwardly.

As a kid, Bobby DiCarlo was trouble. Orphaned at sixteen, with no outlet for his rage and sadness, he’d found his way to the South Street Gym, where Frankie took him under his wing. He taught him how to box, gave him focus. With all of his pent up anger, Bobby easily could have chosen the wrong side of the law. But Frankie’s guidance helped keep him on track. He loved Bobby like a little brother—but he loved me more. My uncle knew our history and he wasn’t sure I was emotionally ready for a repeat performance. And to be honest, neither was I.

Bobby opened his eyes, looking slightly amused. “Thought I’d help Brandy clean up.” Getting off the couch, he gathered up the remaining bottles and glasses and took them to the kitchen.

“Yo, midget brat,” my uncle said, looking down at me fondly, “try and get some rest tonight. You’re gonna need your strength when your mother arrives.” Oy.

Bobby was pressed up against the sink, washing some plates. He’d rolled up his sleeves, exposing strong forearms, the right one newly tattooed. I walked over and touched his arm lightly, turning it over to read the inscription inside a small red heart.
Sophia.

“How’s she doing?” I asked. Stupid question considering she’s two and just lost her mother a little over a month ago.

Bobby frowned and turned off the water. “She hasn’t asked about Marie lately. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. I’m taking her to counseling. I think it’s important for a person to deal with their problems,” he added pointedly. “Don’t you?”

“Couldn’t agree more,” I said, being purposely obtuse.

DiCarlo studied me, concern written all over his face. “Bran, Franny says you’re—”

I cut him off. “Franny says she’s going to divorce Eddie and run off to Tahiti with a Colin Farrel look-alike she met at the Acme the other day. You can’t believe everything Fran says right now. It’s the hormones talking.”

He gave me an exaggerated eye roll. “Anyone ever tell you that you have a real stubborn streak?”

Yes. Constantly.
“No. Never. You’re the only one.”

Bobby snorted, but he let it drop and we finished up the dishes in companionable silence.

“Thanks for helping out,” I said a little while later as I walked him to the door.

“I’ll call you about target practice,” he said, shrugging into his jacket. He bent down and grazed my cheek with his lips. “Sleep tight.”

I nodded, ignoring the rising skitter in my stomach as his skin brushed against mine.
Damn hormones!

I closed and double-locked the door and then headed back into the kitchen to turn off the light, when I remembered the message on the answer machine. I walked over to the phone and hit play.

“Brandy, it’s Tamra.” Her voice was steady, but there was a quality I couldn’t quite put my finger on. “I’m sorry about what happened at lunch today. I owe you one. Listen, I really need to talk to you. Call me in the morning.” I hit play again, listening, this time, for what she
didn’t
say. I recognized that quality in her voice now. I knew it only too well. It was fear.

Damn. I really didn’t need something new to obsess over just before going to bed. I grabbed a pack of TastyKakes out of the cupboard and popped one in my mouth while I listened to the message again. Yep, fear. Well, she’d had that fight with her husband today. Maybe he’d threatened her somehow. Or—ooh—Nelson, the security guard was looking at her kinda weird. Maybe he came on to her and she needs me as a witness for the sexual harassment suit she planned to file. Okay, if it were really something bad, she wouldn’t be calling me. I barely know the woman. The thought calmed me a little.

I took the rest of the pack of chocolate cupcakes upstairs with me and got ready for bed. Adrian followed me into the bathroom while I brushed and flossed my teeth. As I stood before the mirror, I did a quick appraisal of the face staring back at me. A month of nightmares had really taken its toll. If the circles under my eyes got any darker, I’d have to hire a special effects artist to cover them. No wonder my friends were worried about me.

Back in my bedroom, I turned on the overhead light and crawled into bed. Adrian climbed on top and began rooting around for TastyKake crumbs. Rocky crawled out from under the chair, dragging what looked like the ear off my Winnie the Pooh bear in her mouth. She leaped up onto the bed and snuggled in next to me. I closed my eyes and thought about Bobby. He looked good tonight. Hah. Who am I kidding? He always looks good. This wasn’t helping.

My thoughts drifted back to Tamra.
I’m probably jumping to ridiculous conclusions, and everything is fine between her and her husband. So they’d had a little fight. I’m sure it’s all forgotten by now. In the mean time, I’m laying here worried sick about her, with an earless Winnie the Pooh and a cat that eats wallpaper for company, while she’s no doubt having wild, passionate make-up sex with Jeff. Boy, I’m really beginning to resent ol’ Tamra.
I rolled over on my side and fell into a fitful sleep.

I
woke up at five a.m. feeling tired and anxious, which was a step up from my usual state of “exhausted and terror-stricken.” I was scheduled to do some voiceover and I didn’t have to be at the studio until late afternoon, so I forced myself to stay in bed, at least until the sun came up. I passed the time thinking of` clever retorts I could have said to Lynne Schaffer over the corndog debacle. I’m always brilliant well after the fact.

At seven, I turned on the news and saw Tamra sitting behind the desk, exchanging some lighthearted bantering with Art Metropolis. She looked to be her perfectly poised self, which both relieved me and ticked me off. I’d spent a lot of good worrying time focused on her when I could have been obsessing about myself.

An hour later I climbed out of bed, determined to get a jump-start on cleaning up the house. My parents would be here in about a week, so by rights I should have started a month ago. My mother ascribes to the adage that cleanliness is next to Godliness, and she cleans as if God is moving in next door—which actually would be a nice change of pace from Mrs. Gentile. He’s probably less judgmental.

I figured it would be hard enough on my mom to accept that her beloved shag carpeting (a staple in the house since 1970) had been replaced with hardwood floors, without the added stress of seeing a month-old, dried out Christmas tree still prominently displayed in the living room. I would have gotten rid of it weeks ago, but Rocky likes to play in the branches. She doesn’t understand about fire hazards.

I shoved the tree through the front door and dragged it down to the sidewalk, trailing petrified pine needles along the way. The trash had already been picked up, which meant it would be another week until the truck came around again. Mrs. Gentile would have a fit if I just left it there, which made the idea all the more appealing.

I was debating whether to hoist it onto my neighbor’s porch and make a break for it, when Heather Koslowski from across the street stuck her head out the front door. She had hair rollers the size of orange juice cans clamped to her head, and she was wearing frosted lipstick. Either that or she was in the critical stages of rabies. Heather is three years older than I am and still lives at home with her parents. She works at City Hall in the Department of Records.

“Yo, Brandy.”

“Yo, Heather.”

Heather’s dog, an asthmatic pug named Mr. Wiggles, followed her down the front steps on four squat legs. His bug eyes stared as he inched closer to the tree, which was propped up against my knee.

“Bran,” Heather said, licking her frosted lips, “I saw your mechanic this morning. He is
really
cute! I was wondering if you could introduce me—that is if
you’re
not interested in him.”

My mechanic is a sixty-two year old ex-biker named Snake, with a face full of tattoos and no front teeth. Buy hey, there’s no accounting for taste.

“No, sure—I guess so.” Mr. Wiggles began rooting around at the base of the tree, making little grunting sounds. I turned slightly, angling the tree away from him. “So when did you see my mechanic?”

“Early this morning. I was out walking the dog and—oh! Mr. Wiggles. No! Bad dog!” Mr. Wiggles lifted one fat leg and squirted the side of the tree. Only he missed the tree.

“Brandy, I’m so sorry.”

I looked down at my leg, which was now saturated by Mr. Wiggles. “I’ve got to go, Heather.” I handed her the tree. Just in case Mr. Wiggles wasn’t finished yet.

I jumped into the shower and hosed myself down. Then I changed into fresh jeans and a sweatshirt and headed downstairs to make breakfast. Adrian was in the kitchen, gnawing a hole through the bag of cat crunchies he’d somehow managed to drag out from under the sink. Rocky sat close by, waiting for the fallout. I grabbed a bowl of Cheerios and was just about to sit down when the phone rang. It was Paul.

“B-Brandy,” he said. “Ya-ya gotta h-help me.”

My adrenalin shot up four notches. “Paulie, what’s wrong?”

“It’s m-mom. She’s d-d-driving m-me crazy.”

“Oh.” I stifled a laugh.

“It’s n-not funny.”

“I’m sorry, Paul. Okay, take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”

Paul took a deep breath, only I’m not sure of what. When he got back on the line he was a lot calmer.

“I just got off the phone with her,” Paul began. “She said when she comes in she’s taking me shopping for a Bar Mitzvah suit. She’s already spoken to Uncle Manny and he’s got a good deal on woolens—whatever the hell that means. Uncle Manny is a pervert, by the way. I’m not letting him anywhere near my inseams.”

Uncle Manny is my mother’s uncle. We used to avoid him like the plague when we were kids. “Brandy, I’m a grown man. I can pick out my own suit.”

“Have you gone to get one yet?”

“No, I was planning on wearing the blue one.” Paul has had the blue suit since his high school graduation. It’s so shiny you can see yourself in it.

“Would it kill you to give the woman a little pleasure, Paulie? Let her pick you out a nice suit.” I could feel another laugh coming on so I bit down hard on my lip.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he growled.

I had to admit that I was. Growing up, Paul was the “good child,” while I—well, let’s just say I kept a lot of people busy praying over my immortal soul.