No Such Thing As a Good Blind Date: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As: A Brandy Alexander Mystery)

by Shelly Fredman

  No Such Thing As A

  Good Blind Date

  A Brandy Alexander

  Mystery

  Shelly Fredman

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations

  are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual

  persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  ©2006 Shelly Fredman. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in

  a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means

  without the written permission of the author.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Bloomington, Indiana

  This book is printed on acid-free paper.

  Digital book(s) (epub and mobi) produced by: Kimberly A. Hitchens, hitch@booknook.biz

  I would like to express my utmost gratitude to the following people:

  Dudley Fetzer— Master of the one-liners. Thank you for being the yin to my yang, the cream in my coffee, the…well, you get the idea.

  Corey Rose Fetzer—You are always right on target about what a scene needs and your (sometimes brutally honest) opinions are just what I need to do my best work.

  Marty Schatz—I’m so grateful that you peruse the newspapers for quirky articles. Without you, I’d have no plotline!

  Bruce Gram—Since I don’t know a period from a comma, I’m sure glad you do. Thank you for all the time you spent going over the text. It was so very appreciated.

  Caleb Fetzer—One heck of a brother-in-law. Thank you for giving me Toodie.

  Susan Jaye—Thank you for getting out there and spreading the word. Your friendship means the world to me.

  Renée Greidinger—My emotional rock and keeper of the memories—Thank you for always listening to me and for keeping me in a steady supply of chocolate TastyKake cupcakes.

  Judith Kristen—(AKA my wonderful pal Judy) author extraordinaire and God’s gift to teenagers—I don’t know what I’d do without your support.

  Franny Fredman—Simply the best mom anyone could hope for. I love you, kiddo.

  And to: Bergundi Silva, Kris Zuercher and Michelle Warren—my new friends—thank you all for making me laugh, supporting my work and sharing your lives with me.

  I’d also like to thank Marilu Coleman, Sharon Ayers, Kathleen Berryhill, Dawn Freeman and Angie Shearin for taking a chance on a new writer.

  For my mom

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  About the Author

  Prologue

  My name is Brandy Alexander and I am a recently reinstated native of South Philadelphia; more specifically, the proud new owner of the house I grew up in. Until five weeks ago I was the “puff piece reporter” for a local morning TV news show, out in Los Angeles. My job was to act perky and look like I was having the time of my life while reporting on “special events” around the L.A. area. There’s really only so much enthusiasm a person can whip up for the Pacoima Chili Cook-off and the job fell a tad short of my dream of becoming the next Diane Sawyer, but it kept me off the streets and out of debt.

  I’d left Philadelphia for the most clichéd of reasons—a broken heart. (I’m a firm believer in running away from one’s problems. It’s a great strategy, right up there with denial. Plus, it’s the only exercise I get.) You’d think that my four year stay in the land of a million therapists would have taught me to confront my feelings head-on, but as my dad would say, I’m a tenacious little bugger. I stick with my game plan no matter how dysfunctional.

  Then one day my best friend, Franny DiAngelo, called to say she was getting married, and there was a bridesmaid’s dress down at Mama Mia’s Bridal Shop with my name on it. She had launched a pre-emptive strike and there was no way I could refuse her. So with much trepidation I packed up my emotional baggage and hopped a plane to Philly.

  I didn’t even realize how much I’d missed my hometown until I was back in the heart of it. My brother and my best friends in the world all still lived in the neighborhood. PrimoHoagies still made amazing hoagies, and the crazy guy in the top hat who sells Italian ice on Market Street still remembered that my favorite flavor is cherry.

  My career in Los Angeles was stalled in the 6:00 a.m. “filler” slot of a third rate news station. My social life was non-existent, since I’d gone on a grand total of six dates in the entire time I’d lived out there. I missed the sights, the smells and the sounds of my neighborhood. I missed who I was and how I felt being surrounded by the people I love.

  In the two weeks I’d been back in Philly, I had reconciled my differences with (if not my feelings for) my ex-boyfriend and could finally take a walk down memory lane without bursting into tears. In short, the time was ripe for a change. So when my parents announced they were selling our family home and moving to Florida, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to buy the house from them. My boss at the TV station argued that it wasn’t very mature of a twenty-eight year old to run back to the metaphoric womb, but nobody likes a know-it-all so I decided to ignore her advice. Had she pointed out that the metaphoric womb was over sixty years old, with really bad plumbing, she may have gotten my attention.

  Chapter One

  “Well, now here’s your problem.” Russell Hannigan, reigning expert on clogged pipes, waved a metallic snakelike object in the air. Speared on the tip sat a soggy oblong wad of cotton.

  Eeww. I blushed in recognition.

  “How many times do I gotta tell you women not to throw this crap down the toilet?”

  “It’s not mine. I think Mrs. Gentile was in here the other day.” I was not above blaming my geriatric neighbor for anything embarrassing retrieved from the depths of my toilet bowl. “Um, do you mind just throwing that away?”

  Russell gave a disgusted shake of his head and tossed the culprit in the trashcan. “Ya know these pipes are ancient. They’re gonna give you a real headache if you don’t replace them.”

  I sighed. “How much?”

  “It’s gonna cost ya.”

  Big surprise.

  “Russell, you up there?”

  “Yeah, Toodie, come on up.”

  Toodie? Toodie Ventura? I craned my neck over the railing as a lanky, red haired bundle of manic energy bounded up the stairs. Toodie was two years ahead of me in elementary school, the same class as my brother, Paul. By the time I’d graduated high school he was one year behind. Toodie reminded me of an Irish Setter puppy, all arms and legs and big dopey smiles. He laid one on me now and I couldn’t help but smile back.

  “Yo, Brandy. I heard you were back in town. Me too.”

  Toodie had just returned from an all expense paid vacation, courtesy of the Pennsylvania penal system. He’d been convicted of stalking his ex-girlfriend, Ilene, and burning cigarette holes in the crotches of all her panties as they hung on the line to dry in her back yard.

  Toodie’s grandmother was convinced it
was all just a big misunderstanding, but the dead rats he’d left in Ilene’s oven, along with the note that read: “Bon Appetit, you fucking bitch. Love, Toodie” cleared up any lingering doubts the judge may have had. Okay, so the “puppy” had a dark side.

  Russell cleaned up his tools and headed downstairs. That left just me and Toodie, and I wasn’t sure why he was here in the first place.

  “I’m working for Russell now. He needed help with the overflow.” Standing ankle-deep in toilet water, Toodie considered what he’d just said and cracked up.

  I helped him mop up and we made our way downstairs. Russell was under the kitchen sink, banging away on the pipes.

  “You’ve got a leak the size of Lake Erie. Ya don’t do something about it, it’s gonna ruin the drywall.”

  I did a quick mental calculation. Eighty-five bucks an hour plus materials came to more than an out-of-work new homeowner could afford.

  “Can’t do it, Russell. At least not until I get a job,” which, at the rate things were going, could be never.

  In the five weeks since I’d been back, I’d been on nine interviews at various news organizations, starting with the most prestigious and slowly working my way down, until yesterday, I found myself answering an ad for a new show called The Nosey Neighbor.

  Basically, the job consists of a pair of binoculars and a cheap digital camera with which I’m supposed to spy on people in the neighborhood and catch them in embarrassing situations. Hilarity ensues. I told them I’d think about it and they told me not to wait too long, there’s a real market out there for this kind of stuff. And there are still people who think we couldn’t possibly be descended from apes.

  Toodie hung back as Russell pulled away from the curb. I live in a predominantly Italian neighborhood on a narrow street filled with small, attached houses called row homes. My house is at the end of the block. The mezuzah on the doorjamb reflects my dad’s half of my heritage, while the statue of the Virgin Mary peering out of a second story window represents my mother’s.

  Eighty-year-old Doris Gentile and I share a common wall. Mrs. Gentile hates me. It started with the decades-old feud she’s carried on with my mother, over some holiday lawn ornaments. In Mrs. Gentile’s world grudges are transferable and they pick up steam as time goes by.

  At the sound of Russell’s van, Mrs. Gentile poked her head outside “to see who was making all that ruckus.” Like there was any doubt in her mind. She sniffed the early December air as if she smelled something distasteful on her shoe and glared down at me. Suddenly her eyes clamped onto Toodie and she furrowed her unibrow in recognition.

  “Toodie Ventura, is that you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Shoo. Shoo!” she scowled, willing him gone with a flick of her wrist.

  Toodie remained rooted in place.

  “What’s with her?” I asked.

  “She’s mad at me because I threw snowballs at her cat when I was six.”

  “Oh.”

  Mrs. Gentile gave up and slammed her door.

  I looked at my watch. I was late for an interview and didn’t have time for small talk, but I didn’t want to appear rude.

  “Toodie, it was good to see ya—”

  “So Brandy, I was thinking. You need some plumbing repairs and I need a place to stay until my granny gets back from her trip to the Bahamas…”

  Oy, I could see where this was heading. “Toodie, why can’t you just stay at her place while she’s gone?”

  “She says I can’t stay there alone since I accidentally set her rug on fire with my wood burning set. But that’s just because I was high at the time. I don’t do that shit anymore,” he added, but he didn’t look me in the eye so I wasn’t all that convinced.

  “Gee, Toodie, I’d like to help you out and all, but I’m not looking for a roommate right now.” Especially a pyromaniac girlfriend-stalker, no matter how tempting free plumbing is. I started backing away towards the house.

  “Okay, so like if you change your mind, give me a call. You can reach me on my cell. It’s 570-1250.”

  “Will do, Toodie.” I made a big show of memorizing the number.

  Back inside, I raced to get ready for my interview. I turned on the shower and jumped in, letting the warm water spray my five-foot-two-inch frame. Belting out the theme song from Friends, I slathered massive amounts of grapefruit-scented shampoo on my shoulder-length brown hair and scrubbed hard.

  It wasn’t until I was ready to rinse that I discovered a noticeable decrease in water pressure. Uh oh. I cranked the faucet handles to the max, but the pressure just kept getting lower and lower until, finally, all that came out was a pathetic little dribble. And then it quit altogether.

  The shampoo had stayed in my hair for too long and my head was starting to itch. I climbed out of the shower and wrapped my soap-encrusted body in a towel. After checking the water pressure on every conceivable faucet in the house, I threw on my dad’s old raincoat and snuck around the outside of the house until I found Mrs. Gentile’s garden hose. I bent over and turned it on full force. Freezing cold water hit the top of my head as I scrambled to rinse myself off before she discovered me pirating her supply. Turns out, Mrs. Gentile was the least of my worries.

  “Hi, Brandy.” I looked up, half naked and turning blue with cold.

  “Oh, hi Henry.” Henry is our mail carrier.

  “Is this some sort of TV prank? I know you were famous for that kind of thing when you worked on that morning news show out in Los Angeles.” Henry stepped closer to get a better look and I took a reflexive step back.

  “No, Henry, this isn’t a prank.”

  He didn’t look like he believed me.

  “Uh, this is a little awkward, so if you don’t mind, I’m just going to hose off and get back in the house.”

  “Sure thing, doll.”

  Henry took out a bundle of envelopes from his mail sack and began stuffing them into my neighbor’s mailbox. I waited a beat, and when I realized he was in no rush to leave I didn’t bother getting the rest of the shampoo out of my hair. I straightened up and tightened the belt on my dad’s raincoat. Then I dove back into the house and called Toodie.

  “Honey, what in the world did you do to your hair?”

  I was sitting in the window seat of Carla’s beauty shop, studiously avoiding the mirrored wall in front of me.

  “It’s a long story.” Actually, it’s a short story, just eternally embarrassing.

  Carla is the manager of the salon and my Uncle Frankie’s longtime girlfriend. She’s only thirty-seven, but she’s more of a mother hen to me than a contemporary. She plunged her hands into the frozen bird’s nest sitting atop my scalp.

  “Smells like grapefruit.”

  “Good olfactory recognition. Can you help me? I’ve got an interview five minutes ago.”

  “I’m going to have to cut it,” she said.

  “No, Carla, please!” I begged, as if I’d just been told they were going to have to amputate a limb. “Anything but that.”

  Carla eyed me critically, her sixties style beehive encased in multi layers of hairspray. She was either hopelessly out of date or retro chic.

  “You’re not too good with change, are you?”

  We compromised. She took me in the back, where Gladys (her ancient employee, who is rumored to be constipated, hence her unnaturally surly attitude towards the rest of human kind) spent fifteen minutes holding my head under water and dousing me with bottles of crème rinse. My head felt like it was coated in salad dressing and it didn’t smell too good either.

  “Just a little trim,” Carla said, when I was back in the window seat again for all the neighborhood to see.

  “Okay, but no more than an inch—and leave the bangs.”

  Carla sighed. “I should shave you bald and dye your scalp bright purple.”

  “But you’re not going to, right?” I knew it was an empty threat, but it still made me nervous.

  The door opened and in walked a young woma
n about my age—very pretty, with long, dark, tangle-free hair and flawless Latina features. Carla looked up and nodded hello. “Be right with you, honey.” She glanced back down at me and tensed.

  “Who is she?” I mouthed into the mirror.

  “Bobby’s wife,” she mouthed back, apology written all over her face.

  I never believed that turning “white as a sheet,” was an actual physical possibility until it happened to me.

  Robert Anthony DiCarlo and I had been friends since the day he swaggered into town, a sixteen-year-old kid with a chip on his shoulder the size of Detroit. I was fourteen and thought the sun rose and set on his magnificent Irish-Italian head.

  Over the next two years I pined away for him as he treated himself to all that South Philadelphia had to offer in the way of pubescent female companionship. But on the night of my sixteenth birthday I claimed Bobby as my own. We sealed the deal behind the dumpster, in back of the South Street Boxing Gym, where Bobby used to hang out. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the most romantic place to consummate two years of unrequited love, but I knew that night that we’d be together forever, and anyway, I wasn’t all that picky.

  Bobby remained faithful to me for close to a decade, but we were young, and eventually, there was a parting of the ways. Wish I could say it was mutual—or that I even saw it coming. The breakup hurt, but the lies were devastating. I’d lost so much more than a lover. I’d lost my best friend.

  A year and a half after I moved to Los Angeles I heard that Bobby had gotten married. It’s not a happy union, but a two-year-old daughter keeps them together. After the upbringing he’d had, Bobby would never abandon his kid.

  Bobby and I got a chance to talk things out when I came back to town for Franny’s wedding. I thought we’d reached a point where we could call each other friends again, but in the five weeks since I’d moved back I hadn’t heard a word out of him.