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

by Shelly Fredman

  “Okay,” I thought, taking a deep breath. “This is not exactly the reunion I’d hoped for, but hell, I’m a professional. I’m trained to handle any situation with grace and composure. I can salvage this.” Meeting his gaze once again, I pushed my sopping wet bangs off my face and returned the smile.

  “Bobby. How good to see you.” I took a step forward and promptly fell off the edge of the stage, knocking myself out.

  Shit. My head hurt. I opened my eyes and found five pair staring back at me.

  “I’m fine.” I tried to sit up but everyone was crowded around.

  “Should I get a doctor?” I recognized Janine’s voice through the ringing in my ears. “Larry Mitchell’s here. Maybe he should look at her.” Larry Mitchell is a veterinarian.

  “Here, let me do it. I’m trained in emergency procedure.” Bobby whipped out a tiny flashlight from his key chain and leaned over me. His smoky blue eyes peered intently into mine. “Brandy, can you sit up?”

  “Of course I can sit up.” Ow.

  “Here, look into the light.”

  “Guys, this is so unnecessary. Really, I’m fine.”

  Bobby flashed me another smile. “Humor me.” I sat stock still while he gently prodded my forehead with his fingers. A lump was beginning to form over my right eye. I guess I should have been concerned about a possible concussion, but I was too busy enjoying the feel of his hands on my face to worry about a little thing like brain damage. He leaned in closer. I could feel his breath, warm on my neck, and I shivered. I closed my eyes and let the sensations wash over me.

  “Um, Brandy?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Could you open your eyes? I want to see if your pupils are dilated.”

  My eyes flew open. Oh my God. There I was practically having an orgasm, and all the poor guy wanted to do was check for vital signs. I felt like a colossal idiot.

  I pushed Bobby’s hand away and sat up. Shit. Double shit! Mindy Rebowitz was striding towards us, her husband, Terrence, in tow.

  “Are you alright?” she asked with exaggerated concern. “When I saw you fall off the stage, I thought, ‘that poor girl. How will she ever live it down?’”

  Concussion or no concussion I struggled to my feet and planted my hands squarely on Mindy’s shoulders. “Live this down, why don’t ya?” I gave her a solid shove and she landed on her big, post partum ass. I half expected Terrence to spring to her rescue, but he just stood there trying not to crack up.

  “Bobby,” Mindy screamed. “She attacked me! You saw it happen.” She looked from Fran, to Paul, to Janine, to John. “You’re all witnesses. I want her arrested!” Fran, Paul, Janine and John all started mumbling at once about having something important to take care of and scurried off in different directions.

  “Relax, Mindy,” Terrence said, extending a hand to his prone wife. “You’ve been begging for it all evening.” Wow, Terrence grew cajones while I’ve been gone. Very impressive. He winked at me and dragged Mindy away, leaving just Bobby and me.

  “Alone at last,” Bobby joked.

  “Where’s your wife?” I blurted out. What is wrong with me? Emotion flickered across Bobby’s face, but I was too slow to read it. Anger? Sadness? “I’m sorry. That was rude. I-I just thought she’d be here.”

  “She’s out of town.” All signs of joking were gone.

  “Oh. Well, that would explain why she’s not here.” I caught an almost imperceptible sigh before he answered.

  “Yeah, I guess it would.”

  “So, I hear congratulations are in order—I mean, on your wife and baby.”

  “Thanks.”

  I nodded my head as if he’d just said something quite remarkable. We stood there for a moment, silently appraising each other. I wondered if he’d noticed my weight loss. I wondered if he liked it. I wondered if he was happy in his marriage, how long it took to get a Mexican divorce and if he asked me to come home with him tonight, what my answer would be. I wondered if Jesus was judging my musings and finding me wanting as a Christian. Maybe the Jews are less judgmental. Hah!

  The sound of his voice stirred me out of my reverie. “So, how have you been?” he asked.

  Lonely, frustrated. I gave a quick scan over that all too familiar body. Horny.

  “Great! I have a job I adore, tons of friends; the weather in L.A. is to die for. What’s not to love about my life?” Who is this woman, and why doesn’t she SHUT UH-UP!

  “I’m happy for you, Brandy.” He cut me that old familiar grin, and for a brief moment I felt a pang so deep I couldn’t breathe. I struggled to regain my composure.

  “Well, what about you?” I asked ho-hoing like some demented Santa on crack. “Lots of changes in your life, I hear.”

  “You could say that.”

  Oh Christ, I’m not ready for the “I’m deliriously happy with my wife and child” speech. I just prayed he didn’t whip out the family photos.

  I waited a beat. When he didn’t elaborate, I quickly went in search of another topic. I looked down at my shoes, adjusted my top and cleared my throat a few times. When I looked up again, he was still there. This was just too weird. How could we be so awkward with each other? There was a time when we knew everything there was to know about one another. We shared it all—our hopes, our dreams, our fears, our first orgasms involving another person. Well, at least I did. Is this really the same guy who used to eat Chinese food, naked, off my stomach? This really sucks!

  It had taken me four years to screw up the courage to face him again. I’d dreamed about this moment since I’d first gotten on the plane. I was going to knock his socks off with my ravishing beauty, my daring wit and my newfound sophistication. I’d make him sorry he’d ever left me. My fantasies definitely did not include long, uncomfortable silences, and a yearning to rip his clothes off and pin him to the floor in a mad, passionate embrace. He was supposed to feel that way about me.

  The silence stretched on for what seemed like hours. And then, just when it seemed like it couldn’t get any worse, it did. In spades.

  The band had left the stage and a D.J. had taken over and was playing audience requests. Bobby was gearing up to make a polite exit and I was trying to beat him to it. And that’s when we heard it—the unmistakable strains of “Bobby’s Girl.”

  “I wanna be Bobby’s girl, I wanna be Bobby’s girl, that’s the most important thing to me.”

  My hands flew up to my face. “I didn’t—”

  “Neither did I—”

  “This is so—”

  “Who would—”

  The answer came to us, simultaneously. “Mindy!” We stood there, paralyzed, as those dopey lyrics ran on and on. Somewhere in the background, someone snickered.

  “Ah, listen, Brandy. I’ve got to go. It was good seeing you.”

  “You too, Bobby.” I extended my hand to shake his, and he reached around for a hug but stopped midway when he realized I wasn’t planning on full body contact. Then I felt bad because he looked embarrassed, so I tried to make it look like I was planning to hug him all along. I reached out and we bumped heads awkwardly, and we ended up in a half-assed embrace, which I made worse by over compensating with a friendly goodbye kiss on his cheek. Only he moved, and I ended up grazing his neck instead. How pathetic is that!

  The gang took a taxi home because we were all too drunk to drive. Fran tried to grill me about Bobby, but I pretended to fall asleep, complete with fake snoring. I wasn’t about to pour my heart out in front of Eddie and the cab driver. The cabbie turned out to be a hell of a nice guy from Saudi Arabia. He and Janine exchanged phone numbers.

  When I got home I walked straight upstairs to the bedroom. I didn’t bother to wash my face or change my clothes. I just turned on the bathroom light, threw back the covers on the bed, snuggled under the blankets and cried myself to sleep.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Note to self: I am not a Waring Blender and therefore, should not act like one.

  I woke up with the Mother of all hango
vers. Mixing Tequila, single malt and club soda seemed like a festive idea last night, but in the clear light of day it just seemed really, really wrong. I turned my head carefully, lest it fall off and roll under the bed.

  The clock said “six thirty a.m.” Oh my God. I’d been asleep for less than four hours, and Johnny was picking me up in thirty minutes. Whatever possessed me to agree to an early morning trip to the Jersey shore? I picked up the phone and dialed his number.

  “You’re not crapping out on me.”

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “Who else would it be?”

  “I’m tired.” I whined.

  “You can sleep in the car.”

  “But, I don’t feel well. I could end up getting sick all over the Beemer.” That made him pause, but he was back in the race before I’d taken my first victory lap.

  “So, you’ll hang your head out the window. We’re driving downwind. No backsplash.”

  “Eeww!”

  “You’re the one who brought it up in the first place, Sunshine.” I flipped him the bird.

  “You just gave me the finger,” he huffed, indignantly.

  “No, I didn’t.” How did he know?

  “Look, it’s a long drive, and you promised to come with me.”

  “I didn’t exactly promise,” I sulked. “Oh, alright. Give me an extra fifteen minutes to hop in the shower.”

  “That’s my girl,” John said, significantly cheered. “Just take some hair of the dog and you’ll be fine.”

  “Screw ‘hair of the dog.’ Bring me chocolate.”

  I swore to myself that I would not look in the mirror, but morbid curiosity got the better of me. I tiptoed into the bathroom and sneaked up on my reflection. Eeek!

  Turning on the shower full blast, I peeled off last night’s outfit and jumped in. Five pounds of ruined make-up slid off my face and down the drain. I washed my hair twice, removing all traces of Janine’s hairspray. Then I climbed out and toweled off and spent the remaining five minutes trying to blow dry my hair into some sort of style. It refused, and rather than get into a big fight with it, I let it hang straight to my shoulders, per usual. My hair is so impossible to style they almost considered making me wear a wig at work. But the producer, a very sweet kid of twenty-two, said he thought it looked sexy. At twenty-two, everything looks sexy.

  I had just climbed into my jean jacket when a horn tooted outside. I grabbed my bag and my keys and headed out the door.

  My parents’ neighbor, Mrs. Gentile, glared at me from her front porch as she bent down to collect her newspaper. She and my mother have had a running feud for the past twenty-odd years. It all started when my mother bought a ten foot inflatable Santa one Christmas, to put out on the lawn. Mrs. Gentile said it dwarfed her manger and was an affront to Baby Jesus. My mother tried to reason with her, citing the fact that my father, being Jewish, wanted to join in the festivities with a non-denominational, yet universally recognized symbol of joy and generosity. Mrs. Gentile called my mother’s explanation a “heathen crock of shit” and stuck to her guns, literally.

  At three o’clock in the morning, shots rang out in our normally peaceful neighborhood. The police arrived ten minutes later, to find Santa dead on the lawn. No charges were pressed, but the incident put a damper on neighborly relations that to this day have yet to be repaired. Every year at Christmas, my mother makes a big show of dragging out the ten foot Santa, complete with a huge bandage strapped over his heart. It causes Mrs. Gentile no end of grief.

  We headed toward the bridge. Traffic was light this time of morning. Most of the older people in the neighborhood were home, puttering around the house and garden, while the younger ones were still in bed, recuperating from their Friday night out on the town. I yawned a big yawn, wishing I were one of the ones still in bed.

  “Here,” Johnny said, sweeping a hand over the console. “I figured you’d need this.” He handed me a large double shot mocha, which I gratefully accepted. I took my first sip and breathed a satisfied sigh.

  “You’re a good man, John Marchiano.”

  “That’s not what you were saying thirty minutes ago.”

  “Thirty minutes ago I was undernourished. Now, I am thoroughly content and all is right with the world.”

  “Uh huh. Until the caffeine kicks in and you go into hyper overdrive. Brandy, you really ought to think about a more nutritionally balanced life style.”

  “Have you been watching ‘Discovery Health’ again? Those Diet Nazis don’t know what they’re talking about, trying to ruin everything that’s good in the world.” I drummed on the console for emphasis.

  “Damn, It’s starting already. I knew I should have ordered you a decaf.”

  “I’m fine.” I opened the window and hung my head out, enjoying the crisp, October air. A black SUV passed us on the right, and I gave the driver a hearty salute. He didn’t wave back. Not a morning person, I guess. I stuck my head back in the car and cranked up the volume on the Green Day song that was playing on the radio.

  “Now,” John said, adjusting the music to a tolerable roar, “are you ready to talk about what happened between you and Bobby last night, or do I have to wait until you’ve thoroughly discussed it with Fran and Janine first?”

  “Sorry,” I said, sheepishly.

  “That is so totally sexist, you know.”

  “It’s not,” I protested. Franny would kill me if I didn’t talk to her first. Besides, there’s nothing to tell.”

  John gave me a sideways glance. “Uh huh.”

  “Really, John. We exchanged pleasantries. It was very anti climatic. I don’t know what I was so afraid of all this time.”

  “So, you didn’t feel anything for him then.”

  “No.”

  He studied me for a beat. “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Fuck you. I’m not lying. Will ya keep your eyes on the road? You’re going to get us killed.”

  “Fine,” he said, dragging his eyes back to the hiway. “I’ll wait until you’ve had your little girlfriend chat with Franny, but then I want details.”

  I sighed. “Deal.”

  Traffic was beginning to pick up. We passed a couple of tour buses filled with senior citizens on their way to the casinos. Their little gray heads peaked over the tops of their seats like fluffy clouds. “That’s so sweet,” I said, pointing to a group sitting at the back of the bus.

  “Don’t let those old people fool you,” John said. “They look all innocent and vulnerable, but just try to horn in on their ‘lucky slot machine’ and they’ll kill ya. They’re like rabid dogs when it comes to their nickel slots.”

  The black SUV appeared again in my side mirror, but stage one of the caffeine high—warm and fuzzy, had begun to wear off, and I was entering phase two—impatient and grumpy. This time I didn’t wave. I put my feet up on the dashboard and John tossed me a death ray. I took them down again and began pawing through his CD collection.

  “Are we there, yet?” I asked, holding up some Coltrane for inspection.

  “Jesus, Brandy, will you quit touching everything? You’re like a little kid.”

  “I’m endearing.”

  “Is that what they call ‘incredibly annoying’ in L.A.? I thought that being in the public eye would mellow you out a little. You know, get rid of some the rough edges.”

  “They think I’m refreshing. Hey, we’re here! I can smell the ocean.”

  It was eight forty five a.m. when we pulled up to the marina. Joel was already there, waiting.

  “Okay, out you go,” I said, anxious to scoot into the driver’s seat.

  “Swear you won’t drink coffee while you’re driving. This is real Corinthean Leather.”

  I didn’t bother to tell him that there’s no such thing as Corinthean Leather, that it’s just a marketing ploy. I just swore on a stack of invisible bibles that I wouldn’t spill anything on it, or drive over thirty-five mph
and he handed me the keys.

  “Come back at eleven. We should be done by then and we’ll go to brunch.”

  John watched me as I carefully backed the car out of the parking space. Then I watched him in the rear view mirror as I burned rubber out of the lot. “Only kidding!” I yelled back at him. No need to give the guy a heart attack.

  I cruised down Brigantine Boulevard until I reached Trump Marina. “The perfect place to amass my fortune,” I thought, settling on a quarter slot machine.

  Ten minutes later I was out of money, so I headed for the boardwalk. Even in mid October, the boardwalk draws a crowd. I watched as a toddler wobbled along, chasing a flock of pigeons. Her arms spread wide, she did this little stomping thing with her feet. Then she dove into the flock, headfirst, laughing and screaming. Her mother grabbed her and tried to get her back in her stroller. The little girl struggled valiantly, but the mother won that battle. I vowed that if I ever had a kid I’d let her chase pigeons until she dropped.

  I stopped at a souvenir stand and bought an aquamarine baseball cap for a dollar that said “Atlantic City” on the brim. I tried it on. It looked pretty good so I got one for my friend, Michele, in L.A. and one for John, too, only his was the deluxe version. It came with a little plastic propeller on the top with the words, “Keep Kool” embossed on the front. John would never wear it, of course, but I figured it would make him laugh.

  After that, I got back in the car and headed back towards the Marina. Traffic was backed up for about half a block. I stuck my head out the window to try to see what was tying things up.

  As I inched my way closer a police car roared past me. “Must have been an accident,” I thought. “Wow, must have been a big accident.” Police cars littered the parking lot. A roadblock stretched across the entrance, and a dozen cops milled around, securing the area. Oddly, there was no sign of damaged vehicles.

  I sat there in the all-consuming traffic, staring out toward the ocean, my eyes drawn to a strange light in the water. Holy shit. My stomach lurched at the sight before me. A few miles out, a boat, or what was left of it was completely engulfed in flames. Several rescue boats had encircled it, but their efforts were in vain.