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

by Shelly Fredman

  Bobby stopped walking and leaned against the guardrail. I stopped too and looked out over the water. There was something very soothing about the water lapping against the big ships in the shipyard. He turned to face me but I couldn’t look at him. I just kept staring out over the river.

  “Brandy, four years ago you wouldn’t have this conversation with me. We’ve got to have it now. It’s long overdue.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Well, do you think you could look at me? I’m not that hard on the eyes, am I?”

  I knew he was attempting a joke, trying to relax me, so I responded by lifting my eyes to him. Encouraged, he heaved a big sigh and continued. “I guess you know I never had much of a childhood. When I met you I was so screwed up. My mother had just died and I was living with a stranger. A stranger who didn’t even like me. My aunt was bound by family obligation to raise me, but she didn’t have a clue what I was going through.”

  “I know. I was there. Remember? Your aunt was a total bitch, by the way.”

  He cracked a smile at that; a brief respite before it turned serious again. “Listen, I know I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. And I swear I’m not looking for excuses.”

  “What are you looking for, Bobby? Absolution? You got it.” I hated that I couldn’t control the sarcastic bitterness in my voice. I hated even more that he knew with such clarity how I still felt, after all these years. I turned away again, but not before my eyes welled with tears. He spun me around, forcing me back into the guardrail, demanding that I meet his gaze. I had nowhere to go except into the river, so I opted for dry land.

  “You trusted me and I fucked up, and if I could take it back I would in a heartbeat.”

  His words reverberated in my head, until suddenly, I was struck with the mother of all epiphanies, and the reason for all the anger and hurt of the past four years became crystal clear to me. It was never a question of love. It was a question of trust. I knew Bobby loved me and he always would. I would always love him too. I also knew that when he said he would “take it back if he could,” he didn’t mean the part about breaking up with me. We were so young when we’d started out, breaking up was inevitable. I could have forgiven him for wanting to be with other people. I would have forgiven him anything, if only he’d had the guts to tell me the truth in the first place. Because for me the real loss wasn’t the sex. It was the loss of our friendship. A friendship built on complete trust. Okay, so I missed the sex part too, but why quibble in the middle of an epiphany.

  The anger I’d been carrying around with me for so long seemed to drift away in the harbor fog. Suddenly, I smiled. It was the first completely genuine, pain free smile he’d seen on my face in four years. It took him by surprise.

  “Want to let me in on it?”

  I put my hand up to his cheek. It felt cold to my touch. He reached up and placed his hand over mine.

  “Bobby,” I said, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  I got home at around eleven. Bobby insisted on following me to my house. I could have tried to talk him out of it, but the truth is that since Halloween Night I’d been living in a perpetual state of fear. The thought was never far from my mind that at any given moment some hatchet-wielding maniac could jump out of the bushes and chop me into tiny bite sized pieces. So when Bobby told me what he planned to do, I made the obligatory “that’s not necessary” noises before I gave in and let him follow me home.

  He checked all the doors and windows and even took a cursory walk around the outside of the house, and when he was satisfied that all was secure he left, issuing the standard warning to be careful.

  It was too quiet in the house so I f lipped on the t.v. “Rocky” was on. While the “Italian Stallion” beat up a side of beef I ran into the kitchen to get a snack. Just then the phone rang. My stomach lurched as I reached for the receiver and said a tentative hello. It was only Franny.

  “Hey Fran, what’s up?” I grabbed some Fruit Loops from the cupboard and ate them dry out of the box.

  “Eddie and I just had a fight about whether we should let his crazy uncle Nuncio make a speech at the wedding, and I told Eddie he wasn’t even invited to the wedding, so now Eddie’s mad and he’s in the bedroom watching ‘Rocky.’”

  “Me, too,” I said, hoping she’d take the hint. It’s not that I didn’t want to hear all about Uncle Nuncio. I just really wanted to see “Rocky.” I’ve seen the movie a hundred times, but I still get really worried that he’s not going to be able to “go the distance” without me there to cheer him on.

  “Hey, speaking of boxing, is it true that Bobby took out Chuckie T tonight? Eddie’s friend ‘Jimmy the Tuna’ was at the gym and said Frankie had to break them up. Something to do with some girl.”

  “That would be me,” I sighed.

  “I knew it! Franny yelled. “Tell me and don’t leave out a thing!”

  I sighed. Rocky would just have to go the distance without me.

  “So you forgave him and now you’re friends again.”

  “Basically, yeah.”

  “And that’s all you want. Friendship.”

  I paused for a minute, thinking about this. “Yeah. That’s all. He’s married Fran, and I don’t do married men.”

  “Unhappily married.”

  “I don’t do unhappily married men, either. And before you ask me how I’d feel if he weren’t married, I think I’d feel the same. At least for now. Ask me if I’m still attracted to Bobby. Fuck, yes. But we’re different than when we started out all those years ago. Things change. Bobby used to complete me. Now I complete myself.”

  I woke up early and had an inexplicable urge to go to Sunday mass. I hadn’t been in years, but I figured with all that’s been going on lately it couldn’t hurt. Afterwards, I stopped by Paul’s and brought him bagels and cream cheese. He’d heard about the incident at the gym from Frankie and wanted all the details.

  “Jesus Christ!” I yelled, forgetting I’d just spent an hour and a half in church exacting penance on myself for, among other things, taking the Lord’s name in vain. “Should I take out an ad?”

  Paul settled for the abbreviated version and an onion bagel.

  I was back home by eleven after making a pit stop at Starbucks for a “redeye.” I was going to devote the day to working on the whole Maitlin-Williams-Mayor connection, but I needed a jumpstart. I settled in with my coffee and drummed my fingers on the table. I came up with nothing. “Okay, then.”

  I wandered into the living room and put on some music, the soundtrack from “Cats.” My parents are seriously in need of an update on their CD collection. When the phone rang I grabbed it absently and said hello.

  “Is this Brandy Alexander?” The unfamiliar male voice was low and rough and panic surged through me.

  “Who wants to know?” I growled, trying to sound tough, although it was hard to pull off with “Jenny Anydots” blaring in the background.

  He brushed off the question. “Not important. Look, I know you’ve been investigating the mayor, and I have some information you may be interested in.”

  “Why would you think that?” I was stalling for time, trying to get my thoughts straight, and he knew it.

  “I don’t have time to play games.” Something in his voice told me he was more scared than threatening. “I want to meet you somewhere.”

  Between the caffeine and the adrenalin my heart was pumping so hard I thought it would pop right out of my chest. “Where?”

  “Thirtieth Street Station.”

  “What’s in it for you?”

  He went quiet for a minute and I thought he’d hung up. When he spoke again what he said surprised the crap out of me. “Hopefully, my life.” He gave a sardonic laugh and a chill ran through me. I should have hung up, but I never seem to be able to do the things I should. I was too fascinated.

  “When do you want to meet?”

  “Tonight at eight. I’ll meet you on the southwest co
rner of the station, in front of the newsstand.”

  Good. Lots of people. Lots of witnesses in case he turned out to be Hatchet Man. If he hacked me up and stuffed me in one of those little station lockers, someone would be bound to notice. This isn’t New York, after all.

  “Okay,” I said. I could always change my mind. Was changing my mind as we spoke, as a matter of fact. “How will I recognize you?”

  “I’ll recognize you.” Well, that was creepy. “Oh, and I know you’re friends with that cop, DiCarlo. No cops or the deal’s off.”

  What else did this guy know about me? There was no way I was going to meet him alone. What if my mystery date turned out to be Thurman Williams? I already knew how things turned out whenever he was around. I couldn’t call Bobby. He fell into the cop category. Frankie? Paul? No, I would not involve them in something that could get them killed. Why was it again that I agreed to meet this guy?

  “I have one more question,” I said. “Why me?”

  “I trust you.” Shit.

  The phone rang four times and I was just about to hang up when a woman’s voice answered. She sounded sleepy and annoyed. I panicked and hung up, not sure if I’d dialed correctly, praying that I hadn’t. I tried again. Same woman, only this time she just sounded annoyed.

  “Um, may I speak with Nick, please?”

  “He’s in the shower. Who’s calling?”

  My throat got all lumpy and I couldn’t answer her if I tried, so I hung up again. I sat at my kitchen table, shredding a paper napkin and trying to figure out why I was feeling so mad I wanted to rip the heads off of live chickens. Ten minutes later the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Brandy Alexander.” Nick. His voice was teasing, and very “just woke up after a night of hot sex” husky. I don’t know who I hated more, him for sounding that way or her for making him sound that way.

  “Oh, hi Nick. What’s up?” Very cool. I could hear him whisper something to her in the background and it pissed the hell out of me. So I repeated in my best “bitch” voice, “What’s up?”

  He came back on the line. “I don’t know. You called me.”

  “I did not.” He has no proof.

  “Oh. Your name turned up on Caller I.D. My mistake.”

  Unhhh! Now I look like a bitch and a liar. I decided to ignore the whole thing. “Well, since I’ve got you on the line…”

  I told him about the mysterious phone call and my plan to rendezvous at the train station at eight o’clock.

  “And you want me to come with you.”

  “Well…”

  More whispering in the background, this time female. He said something back to her and they both laughed.

  “Y’know, Nick, it sounds like you’re busy. I’ll catch you when you’re not so preoccupied.” And for the third time that morning I hung up.

  He must’ve hit redial because the phone rang right away. I contemplated not answering, but he already knew I was home.

  “What?”

  “We weren’t finished with our conversation. What time do you want me there tonight?” he asked, pleasantly. Oh he thinks he’s so cool.

  “It’s nice of you to offer, but I think I’ll field this one myself.” God I could be childish.

  “Okay.”

  Okay? “I can take care of myself, you know,” I added belligerently, as if he’d given me an argument.

  “You’re very capable,” he agreed.

  “So, I’ll be going then—alone—to meet some stranger. Could be a rapist. Could be a murderer…”

  “What time do you want me to pick you up?”

  “Seven thirty.”

  I had absolutely no right to feel this way, but I hoped they’d had a big fight after we hung up the phone. She’d beg him to stay and make passionate love with her all night, but Nick would say, “No, bitch. Brandy needs me. I’m outta here.” Where was I getting this stuff? Nick doesn’t talk anything like that. I decided I had way too much time on my hands and went off to do something productive.

  I typed in Schoolmates.com on Janine’s computer, and Philip Gruber’s name and the name of the college and year in which he graduated. Janine was off to her mother’s for her weekly “Laundry and Lecture,” but she told me to take as much time as I needed. There was something weird about Philip Gruber but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Judging from the list of charities he donated to, he certainly played the role of nerdy philanthropist to the hilt. But I got the feeling there was another Philip Gruber lurking behind the bespeckled nice guy image. Call me crazy but anybody who collected animal heads to glue on his wall can’t be as mild mannered as this guy was making himself out to be. I hoped that his old college buddies might be able to shed some light on him.

  Two hours later I had a much clearer picture of Philip “The Jackal” Gruber than before. I introduced myself as Brandy Alexander, features editor for the Philadelphia based Magazine “Newsworthy!” and I told them I was doing an article on one of their college friends, Philip Gruber.

  According to his classmates, the guy had no friends, with the possible exception of the man who eventually was to become his partner, Michael Hoffman. The general consensus was that Gruber would sell his grandmother’s dentures if he thought he could turn a buck. He was nicknamed “The Jackal” after a particularly nasty incident, in which he was suspected of taking money to trip up another runner in a high stakes relay race so that the favored runner could win. The guy who fell broke his leg in three places and had to forfeit his athletic scholarship. Well, no one accused Gruber of not being enterprising.

  On a whim I then looked up his ex wife, Marlo, in the phone book. According to the article I’d read on Gruber, Marlo owned an art gallery in Center City. She answered the phone herself and I made my fake introductions. I have always found that the key to successful lying was in believing the lie myself. I was really starting to like my pretend job with Newsworthy!

  Marlo Gruber’s cheery “phone answering” voice died as soon as I mentioned her ex husband’s name. I could feel a physical shift in her demeanor as she told me in no uncertain terms that she was not willing to discuss the man. I would have chalked it up to the usual post divorce bitterness, except that she didn’t sound bitter. She sounded scared shitless. What was with this guy, anyway?

  I finished up at Janines’and headed home to get dressed for my rendezvous with the mystery man. What does one wear to a clandestine meeting with a stranger? Nick would be there too, which definitely upped the ante. Okay, we were meeting outside a train station. How out of place would I look dressed in a slinky black gown and four- inch stiletto heels if I even owned that kind of wardrobe, which I don’t. But I wanted to look nice for Nick. I settled on a fresh pair of jeans and my new black underwear. At least I’d know I looked nice.

  By seven twenty-five I was set to go. My freshly washed hair smelled like vanilla and fell tangle-free to my shoulders. The new bra was slightly push-up, which gave the illusion that I actually had breasts to speak of. My jeans were tight and my top was low. I debated about shoes, but in the end I opted for my old shit-kicker boots, just in case things turned nasty and I had to kick the shit out of somebody. This was totally uncharted territory and I wanted to be prepared for any eventuality. I knew it was kinda sick to turn this into a “date with Nick” of sorts, when some poor schlub was counting on me to save his life. But who knew when I’d have another opportunity to spend time with Santiago, and I’m a big believer in multi tasking.

  At exactly seven thirty the doorbell rang. Suddenly the seriousness of what I was about to embark on hit me. “Oh my God, this isn’t a game. This is a real life murder investigation, with informants and dead people and everything.” I opened the door and freaked.

  “Nick!” I screamed, my neurotic impulses bearing down on me, “I can’t do this. Who do I think I am, Woodward and Bernstein? I investigate Flower Shows and Doggie Beauty pageants for a living. I’m strictly small potatoes. What made me think I cou
ld pull off meeting some stranger who says his life is in my hands? He’s wrong. I can’t be trusted. I’m so sorry I dragged you out here tonight. I can’t go. You look very nice, by the way.”

  He was wearing a pair of faded Levi’s and an old herringbone jacket, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his ever- present silver wristband. I could tell he was trying hard to keep from laughing. He stuffed his hands in his jacket pocket and the front of the jacket fell away, revealing what appeared to be the business end of a .38.

  “Is that a gun under there?” I asked.

  “It’s illegal to carry concealed.”

  I waited for him to go on, but that was it as far as he was concerned. I stepped aside and let him into the house. It felt weird to have dangerous, scary, beautiful Nick standing in my mommy’s living room. He smiled at me, encouragingly. When he spoke his words were non judgmental and soothing.

  “If you don’t want to do this, I’m not going to push you. I just want you to think about how you’ll feel if you don’t go.” He had me there.

  We found parking out on the street several blocks from the station. Since we were a few minutes early we went over the plan again. I would walk up to the corner alone, Nick following behind at a discreet distance. It would be crowded at the front of the building, so Nick would blend in nicely with the commuters. He wouldn’t be more than a few feet away; even if I couldn’t see him I had to trust that he was there. If I felt any discomfort at all, I was to raise my hand like I was hailing a cab and Nick would appear at my side. It was a simple plan and, as it turned out, quite unnecessary.

  My heart lodged firmly in my mouth, I walked stiff legged to the appointed corner. Casually I looked about, noting the people around me. Most of them appeared to be business folk, coming home after an exhausting day at work. Some carried luggage. A few had shopping bags.

  After a few minutes I noticed a man about Nick’s height walking towards me. He did a cursory glance around before his eyes settled on me. The man wore a gray sweatshirt and jogging pants. A Phillies’ baseball cap obscured his face. Someone jostled him and he jumped back slightly. When he realized it was an accident, he nodded and quickened his pace. He was within handshaking distance when a crackling sound stung the air, and in that instant his head exploded like a Halloween pumpkin that had been dropped from a second story window.