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

by Shelly Fredman

  “Why didn’t he say anything to anyone?” I asked.

  “Brandy, It’s Bobby we’re talking about. Mr. ‘Suffer in Silence’ Guy. He’s not all that much different than when we were kids. If anything, he’s gotten worse.” She got up to go to the bathroom. “I have to pee every fifteen minutes, these days,” she complained.

  When she returned, she picked up the dishes and began filling the sink with dish washing liquid. “Y’know, Bobby’s probably confided more in you in the last hour than he has to any of us in the past four years. And if I know DiCarlo, he’s blaming himself for what happened to Johnny.”

  “But why? He couldn’t possibly have known what would happen to John.”

  “Eddie says he’s got an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. Probably because he had to grow up so fast.”

  I didn’t want to talk about Bobby right now. It was too confusing. I needed some private time to think about it. “Fran,” I asked, changing the subject, “have you ever heard of a guy named Nicholas Santiago?”

  She thought this over for a minute. “No, why?”

  So I told her. Everything. From the way he looked at me, to the way my entire body responded to the touch of his hand on the back of my neck. “Oh my God, Franny, I could like totally become his sex slave.”

  Fran snorted. “Yeah, right. How many times have you had sex since you broke up with Bobby?”

  I changed the subject again. Some things are just too humiliating to dwell on.

  We spent the evening doling out chocolates to the neighborhood munchkins. In between, we watched Nightmare on Elm Street and then something even scarier.

  “What’s this?” Fran had been rummaging through my parents’ videotapes, searching for something to watch. She held up a tape marked “Brandy.”

  “It’s nothing,” I said and tried to grab the tape from her hands.

  “Nothing, huh?” She held the tape high above me, taunting me with her height. I would have pushed her down, but since she was pregnant it wasn’t an option. She bent over the VCR and popped the tape in.

  “I hate you,” I said, folding my arms across my chest.

  Franny grinned. “Wow, I must’ve hit the jackpot.”

  A minute later there I was, big as television life, decked out in a poodle skirt and white socks. My hair was done up in a nineteen fifties “flip,” and as if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, I was wearing pearls.

  “This is Brandy Alexander, appearing live on the set of “American Memories,” I announced in a generic voice, devoid of all regional accent. “Early Edition News in L.A. will be taking you on an exclusive, ‘behind the scenes’ tour of this very popular show. So, stay tuned for the hula hoop contest, up next!” I ended with a toss of my hair and a big toothy grin.

  Franny howled with laughter. “Hey, what’d you do with your accent? You sound like a frigggin’ debutante.”

  “I swear to God, Franny, if you tell anyone about this, I’ll spread it all over town what you did in high school with Jack Passetti, in the bathroom on prom night.”

  “Oh, fine,” Franny relented. “But how come I never saw this? We’re best friends. This is the embarrassing shit we’re supposed to share with each other.”

  “I was going to give it to you as a wedding gift, but you’ve ruined the surprise.”

  Franny left at nine thirty p.m. We hadn’t gotten any more trick or treaters in about half an hour and all the candy was gone. After she left I went in and finished cleaning up the kitchen. I let the lasagna pan soak and scrubbed the microwave so that it didn’t smell like burnt tomatoes anymore. Then, I poked my head into the freezer to see if I’d left any frozen Milky Ways in there. I like to have a bedtime snack. There weren’t any and I was really disappointed. I’d gotten my taste buds all worked up for something sweet.

  In the corner on the lower shelf, tucked behind some frozen broccoli, I found a plastic bag with something brick hard, inside. I took it out and examined the contents. It was my mother’s famous fruitcake. She made it every Christmas, and for the entire next year it sat in the freezer until she made a replacement, at which time the old one would be thrown away. It was tradition, my mother’s way of ringing in the New Year. I put the fruitcake back in the plastic bag. I wasn’t that desperate…or was I? Just in case I was, I took it upstairs with me.

  My plan was to climb into bed and stay there. I was going to get a good night’s sleep if it killed me. Just then, the doorbell rang. I glanced at the clock. Ten thirty. “Unhhh.” I padded downstairs in my bare feet and looked out the peephole. Someone was standing on the porch, wearing one of those “Scream” costumes that were popular a few years ago. He stood about five feet six, and he held a trick or treat bag in one hand and a plastic hatchet in the other. His voice was muffled behind the mask. “Trick or treat.”

  “I’m sorry, there’s no more candy,” I yelled through the door.

  He rang the bell again.

  “No more candy,” I repeated.

  “Trick or treat.” Boy, he sure was persistent. Maybe he couldn’t hear me.

  I opened the heavy front door, forgetting that when Franny had left I’d forgotten to lock the storm door. “No more—”

  The storm door swung open with a terrifying force. I tried to slam the big wooden door shut, but he shoved it back open with his shoulder. Before I could blink, he was in the house, brandishing the hatchet. In the light of the foyer it didn’t look so plastic anymore. I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out. At the moment the irony was lost on me, so I turned and began running haphazardly through the house, frantically searching for an escape route. He came barreling towards me, the sharp edge of the all too real hatchet narrowly missing my arm.

  Dizziness and nausea swept over me as I zigzagged through the dining room. My elbow banged against a dining room chair, and I grabbed the back of it and flung it at my attacker. He stopped, momentarily dazed, and I raced up the stairs two at a time. If I could just reach the bedroom, I could lock myself in and call the police.

  Panting, my lungs about to burst, I reached the last step. He was right behind me, so I tucked and rolled, propelling myself into the bedroom. I kicked the door closed with my foot, grabbed the lock and twisted it. Shaking violently, I grabbed lunged for the phone.

  Wham! The hatchet hit the door with unbelievable force. It splintered the wood and got stuck in there. A gloved hand reached out and smashed through the hole, unlocking the door. It swung open, and I stepped backwards towards the bed. He was panting heavily and he smelled like grain alcohol. Through the eyeholes of his mask, two crazed eyes peered out at me. I swept the room, looking for something, anything to defend myself with.

  Then I saw it, the frozen fruitcake. My hand automatically reached out and grabbed it. I twisted the bag around my hand, hefting the rock solid brick into the air. I began to swing it over my head, and as it gained momentum I launched the sucker. It hit him squarely in the temple, and he went down like a sack of potatoes.

  I couldn’t tell if he was knocked out or merely stunned, but I wasn’t about to stick around to find out. I bolted down the stairs, grabbed my bag off the hallway table and blasted through the storm door.

  The adrenaline rush that had gotten me out of the house began to fade. With trembling hands I unlocked Paul’s car and crawled in. Locking the door behind me, I punched in 911 on the cell, and then I sat with my head between my knees and waited for the nausea to pass.

  About ten minutes later, although it seemed like an hour, a patrol car pulled up behind me, its headlights illuminating the inside of the car. I climbed out and walked unsteadily over to the officers. One took my statement while the other searched the house, weapon drawn. My statement sounded ridiculous, even to me. A guy in a Halloween suit attacks me with a hatchet and I hit him with a fruitcake, rendering him unconscious.

  From across the street, I could see the other officer searching the grounds, his beam of light making wide circles on the lawn. In a few minutes he came over to
give us an update on his findings. It was a brief report. There were no findings. The guy was gone, the hatchet was gone, and did I maybe have a little too much to drink tonight and get into a domestic squabble with my boyfriend? I wondered if they could arrest me for saying “fuck you” to an officer of the law. I decided to take my chances. They chalked it up to “the vino talking” and encouraged me to sleep it off.

  I waited for “Chief Wiggum” and his cop crony to pull away from the curb and then, very reluctantly, I reentered the house. It was surreal. For the second time today someone had tried to kill me. I mean a person could go an entire lifetime without that happening.

  Jeez, what are the odds?

  I simply could not bring myself to stay here alone. I ran upstairs and began throwing clothes into an overnight bag. I would call Paul and tell him he was getting a roomie for the night. No, he wasn’t up to speed on anything. Why worry him? Franny? Eddie would tell Bobby. Janine. As I debated the best person to call, I heard a soft noise behind me. Before I could turn around, a hand reached out and grabbed my shoulder and I screamed and kept on screaming. The hand clamped me on the mouth as I struggled to get away. I twisted around, freeing myself from his grasp, and then I screamed some more.

  “Shut uh-up!” It was the last thing I heard before my head hit the ground.

  CHAPTER NINE

  They say that when you are about to die, your life flashes before your eyes. Maybe I was having one of those moments. I could have sworn I saw John’s face; heard him tell me to “shut up” before I headed towards that final oblivision. Only I wasn’t dead. My head hurt too much to be dead. And apparently, neither was Johnny. He peered down at me with grave concern.

  “Brandy, for Christ’s sake, get up. I need to talk to you.”

  I forced my eyes open, willing them to focus on the figure hovering above me. “Oh my God,” I whispered. “You’re alive.” I scrambled to my feet and threw my arms around him, nearly knocking him over. “I can’t believe it. The boat—the explosion, how did you—” My body vibrated with shock as I tried to croak out a complete sentence.

  John carefully disengaged my arms from around his neck and sat down on the edge of my bed. He gently pulled me down next to him. He was dressed in the same outfit he’d worn the last time I’d seen him. It was unfathomable that only two days had passed since then. His clothes were disheveled and stained and smelled like cherry tobacco. I’d never seen John look anything less than immaculate and that, more than anything, disturbed me.

  “Your father,” I started. “Does he know? We have to call him.”

  “He knows. Sweetie,” he soothed, taking my hand in his, “calm down. I was able to get through to my dad last night.”

  “Last night? Oh.” Suddenly, my concern turned to fury. I yanked my hand away from his. “Why didn’t you call me, you little shit? Do you have any idea how devastated I was?” The dam burst and I was crying my heart out. Tears of joy and anger and mostly relief streamed down my face onto my shirt. He waited a few minutes while I went into the bathroom for some tissue. I came back with a handful of wadded up toilet paper and sat down again, dabbing at my nose.

  “Are you done?” he inquired.

  “I think so.”

  “Y’know it’s so typical of you, Brandy. I’m almost blown to smithereens, and you make it all about you!”

  “Well, I didn’t have the easiest night either, y’know. Somebody tried to kill me too.”

  “Get out!”

  I nodded. “With a hatchet.”

  “Wow.” He lay back on the bed, contemplating this. I lay back too and gazed up at the ceiling.

  “I wonder if it was the same guy who blew up the boat.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” I shrugged. “I seem to be pissing off a lot of people lately.”

  Bobby wasn’t too thrilled with me when he left tonight, but he wasn’t high on my list of suspects. An image of Raoul flashed though my mind, and I wondered if he could be my night stalker. They were about the same height, and he did have a penchant for sharp, shiny objects. Then there was whoever was after Johnny. Maybe they decided to make me a target too. John and I continued to lie on the bed, staring into space.

  It was a mere stroke of hypochondria that saved John from being blown to bits. After I’d dropped him off at the Marina on Saturday, John and Joel got ready to set sail. But at the last minute John realized he didn’t have his Dramamine, plus he had a headache and he was too cold, he’d forgotten to bring a heavy jacket. Joel was justifiably annoyed, so to placate him John offered to let Joel take the boat out by himself. An avid sailor, Joel jumped at the chance, and they agreed to meet back at the Marina later on. John got off the boat and wandered around the Marina for a while. He tried to call me to have me pick him up, but his cell phone chose that moment to perform the death rattle. He had his camera with him, so he figured he’d just use the opportunity to cruise around on his own a bit, taking pictures of the boats on the water.

  “I was adjusting the lens when all of a sudden my boat goes up in flames. I was completely freaked out; I didn’t know what to do. And that’s when I saw this guy, standing over on the pilings, staring out to sea. He looked familiar, like I should know him, but I didn’t. He had this look on his face. It was bizarre. Like he was getting off on the explosion. I kind of shrank back against some fencing and watched him. After a few minutes, he walked off towards the parking lot and got in a black Ford Explorer and drove away. I swear to God, Brandy, it was the same car that’s been following me around, and I knew then and there that the explosion was no accident.”

  “Did you get a picture of the guy?”

  John shook his head. “I didn’t think of it until it was too late.”

  “Well, why did you take off? You could’ve waited for me, or found a phone, or—”

  “Brandy, honey, do you really think I was thinking rationally at that point? I didn’t know if that guy had friends. I had to get away fast, before anyone recognized me.”

  “You must have been so scared,” I said, quietly. And suddenly, I was crying again.

  “I called you as soon as I could, you know.” John stood up and stretched. “Listen, I’ll tell you the rest a little later. Right now, I could really use a shower and some clean clothes.” He walked over and examined the splintered bedroom door. “Oh my God, you weren’t kidding about the hatchet, were you?”

  “Take your shower. I have a feeling this is going to be a long night.”

  My dad had some old sweat pants in the back of his closet. I pulled them out, along with a thermal undershirt. They were about three sizes too big for John, and definitely not his preferred mode of dress, but it was either that or my mom’s flannel nightgown. When he came out of the bathroom, he looked more refreshed and didn’t smell like cherry tobacco anymore.

  We sat in the kitchen and drank peppermint tea while I caught him up on everything that had happened. Then it was John’s turn. He’d taken a cab to the boardwalk and bought himself some cheap sunglasses and a baseball cap. Then he holed up in one of the lesser-known casino hotels and waited it out. He figured if enough time elapsed he could sneak back to town and let us know he was safe.

  “There were a couple of hang ups on my message machine.”

  “That was me. I didn’t want to talk. I just wanted to make sure you were home so I could come by. I was working on complete paranoia, thinking they’d tapped your phone. That, by the way, is how I figure they knew I’d be taking my boat out on Saturday. Remember I told you I’d been hearing weird clicks on my line? I’m sure it was tapped.”

  “So, how did you get back here?”

  John rolled his eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh. “I think that was the most harrowing part of all,” he announced, dramatically. “I took the gray panther special.” I choked back a laugh as he continued. “Two hours trapped on a bus with people discussing their bowel movements like it was the State of the Union Address.”

  I laughed out loud at that. I couldn�
��t help it.

  We stayed up half the night, talking. Images of exploding boats and hatchet wielding maniacs haunted me, rendering me too terrified to close my eyes. And to top it off, the cops didn’t believe me. I’d grown up thinking the police were our friends, and rationally I knew we were only talking about a handful of bad apples. But this wasn’t a rational world I was living in, these days. All I knew was the people who were supposed to be there to protect and serve me did neither. And there was a good chance they were the very people I needed protecting from.

  John let out a deep sigh. “If I hadn’t told Joel to take the boat, he’d still be alive.”

  “And if Daniel had never been born he wouldn’t have had a thirtieth birthday party, and this whole stinking mess never would have happened. Don’t go there, John. What happened to Joel is not your fault.”

  We focused instead on what we should do next. Did we dare tell any of our friends that he was back from the grave? Of course he’d told his dad. But what about Paul and the rest of our friends? “If you tell one, you might as well tell them all,” I reminded him. “You know there’s no such thing as a secret in this crowd. Besides, they all love you. They need to know you’re okay.”

  John gave me a blank look. “Does that include Bobby?”

  I considered this. “Yeah,” I said, finally. “It does.” Bobby would be over the moon to know John was alive, and God knows he could use some good news. I believed Bobby when he said he wasn’t into any illegal activities, and I know he finally believed me about there being dirty cops on the force. Hell, he’d admitted he had his own suspicions. I just didn’t know how ready he was to keep secrets from his superior officers. Was he willing to risk his career, or worse to help me find out the truth? One thing was for sure though—I was going to investigate, with or without Bobby, and in order to do that, I had to look the part.

  “I need to toughen up my image,” I said. “Maybe I should start carrying a gun.”

  “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for the most asinine statement you’ve ever made, but it eludes me right now,” John yawned.