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

by Shelly Fredman

  The night was clear and crisp. I breathed in deeply and scanned the block checking for signs of anything amiss. About four houses down on the other side of the street I spotted a white Toyota Corolla. I know every one of my neighbors’ vehicles and this wasn’t one of them. My guts twisted in fear as I flashed on the white Corolla that had cruised down my block earlier in the day. I whistled for Adrian and he came trotting back inside. I slammed the front door shut and locked it. Is someone spying on me? Should I call the cops? Bobby? Nick? My mommy?

  While I was debating this the doorbell rang. I jumped a mile. Clutching the stun gun in my hand I balanced on tiptoe to peer out the spy hole. My parents peered back at me. I opened the door to let them in. “Why didn’t you use your key?” I asked, forgetting all about the faux cell phone I was holding.

  “Oh, honey,” my mother said, wrestling it out of my hand. “I need an upgrade on my phone. Does this one take pictures?” She held it up and aimed it at my father.

  “No, Mom. Don’t!” I grabbed it back from her before she zapped my dad into tomorrow. “Um… I’m expecting a call.” I said goodnight, ignoring the “Where did we go wrong?” look that passed between my parents and went upstairs.

  Grabbing a pair of binoculars out of my bedroom closet, I crept over to the window and pulled the curtains back slightly. The white Corolla was still out there. I could barely make out a shadowy figure sitting behind the wheel. I dragged a chair over to the window and sat down. It was going to be a long night.

  At around 3:00 a.m. someone emerged from the car. He looked to be about 5 feet nine or so, wearing a bulky, hooded jacket. His back was to me and by the way he was standing, I’d say he was taking a bathroom break. He finished up and got back in the car. I fell asleep after that and when I awoke at six, the car was gone.

  I pulled on some jeans and a long sleeved tee shirt and threw on a hooded sweat shirt on top of that. Then I grabbed the binoculars and my digital camera off the dresser and headed downstairs.

  Rocky was in the kitchen scooting a hockey puck around on the floor. Where’d he get a hockey puck? I bent down to pick it up and discovered it was actually one of my mom’s homemade biscuits. Seeing as it looked like a piece of blackened rubber, I could understand how my kitten might mistake it for sports equipment. I thought about letting her play with it some more, but I doubted my mom would find the humor in that, so I tossed it into the garbage disposal where it joined the stew.

  When I got outside, Heather and her dog were just getting back from their morning stroll. She waved hello and crossed the street to meet me. I was anxious to get underway but I didn’t want to be rude, so I started walking backwards to the car to sort of let her know I was in a hurry.

  “Thanks for all your help yesterday,” I called out to her, making a big deal out of opening the car door and tossing my stuff inside. I slid behind the wheel and stuck my key in the ignition.

  “Did you find the guy you were looking for?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure. I’m on my way over to his house now to try to get a picture of him. When I get back I’ll show it to you.” I started up the car.

  “Take me with you, Brandy.”

  I turned off the ignition. “What?”

  “That way you won’t have to take a picture,” Heather said. “I’ll know him if I see him. It’ll save you time.”

  She had a point. But not a strong enough one to endure what could turn out to be hours on end of her company, riding shotgun in the Le Sabre.

  “Heather, why would you want to come along? I mean who knows how this guy will react if he catches us spying on him. This could turn out to be really dangerous.”

  Heather looked down at her feet. “Brandy, I’m thirty-one years old and I’ve never had a boyfriend. I still live with my parents, my job bores me to tears and Mr. Wiggles is my only friend. And he just barely tolerates me. Your life is so exciting. Just once I want to do something crazy.”

  I sighed. “Don’t you have to go to work?”

  She whipped out her cell phone. “This is Heather. Cough. Cough. I’m not coming in today.” She hung up and looked at me. “Please?”

  “Oh, what the hell,” I relented. “Ditch the dog and climb on in.”

  Zack Meyers lived at Front and Duncannon Avenues, across the street from a high school. His neighborhood is an older, more dilapidated version of mine, with double wide porches, bars on the windows and aluminum awnings stretching across the tops of the entrances to the houses.

  We parked a few doors down across the street and I cut the engine. Heather had changed from her work clothes into what she imagined the well dressed spy was wearing these days—black turtleneck, black jeans and a black ski mask. I told her to lose the ski mask, unless she was planning to rob a bank afterwards.

  I’d felt really sorry for her after she told me that Mr. Wiggles was her only friend, so I’d stopped at Starbucks along the way and bought her a Mocha. Then I drove by Dunkin’ Donuts and picked up half a dozen of the powdered jelly-filled. I’d never been on a stake out before, but it just seemed like the right thing to bring along and I wanted to look professional.

  “This is fun,” Heather said, slurping her mocha. “We should hang out more often.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, swept away by a sugar induced euphoria. I’d already eaten all three of my doughnuts and Heather still had one left. I eyed the bag longingly.

  “You can have it if you want,” she said.

  “If you’re sure,” I said and took it out of the bag before she had a chance to change her mind. I bit into the doughnut and raspberry jelly squirted out the side, landing on my chest. I looked like I’d been shot. Note to self: Take etiquette lessons.

  Time went really slowly after all the doughnuts were gone. I knew Meyers was at home. I’d called his house line when we first got here. Judging by the way he answered his phone, the guy was definitely not a morning person.

  “Well, we can’t just go marching up to his door and ring the bell,” I said, “so we’ve got to find a way to lure him out of the house. But how?”

  “Yo Bran,” Heather said slowly. “Remember that Halloween about fifteen years ago, when you and Bobby DiCarlo went around the neighborhood lighting bags of dog poop on fire and then ringing door bells and running away?”

  “Hey. Why do I always get blamed for everything? That was not me.”

  “Sure,” said Heather. “Anyway, remember?”

  And suddenly I knew why the Universe conspired to make me bring Heather along. I smiled at her. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a really smart cookie?”

  “You’re the first,” she said, smiling back at me. “Thanks.”

  Okay, even though our goal was not to get some poor schlub to stick his foot in a pile of flaming dog poop, the same principle applied. I handed Heather the binoculars and told her to wait inside the car while I gathered some dried twigs to fill up the doughnut bag. Then I crept up to Meyers’ porch and laid it down on the top step.

  People would be leaving for work soon so I had to hurry. I have to admit I was a little nervous. Bobby had always been the one to do the actual torching. I was just the “Lookout.”

  I took a book of matches out of my pocket and struck two at once, touching the burning tip to the paper bag. The bag was slow to ignite. That was good. It would give Meyers a chance to stamp out the flame before it set the entire neighborhood on fire.

  Once I got it going I rang the door bell a bunch of times and then ran like crazy back to the car. I almost made it too, except for that icy patch on the sidewalk. For the second time in a week my feet flew out from under me and I landed on my butt on the muddy ground. Heather stuck her head out the car window. “Are you okay?” she asked. I could tell she was trying hard not to laugh.

  I hauled myself up and scrambled back into the car. “Don’t say a word,” I warned her. She made a sign like she was zipping her lips and throwing away the key.

  Suddenly, the door to Zack Meyers’ house flung
open. Although we could barely make out the bulky figure inside, we heard him loud and clear. “Goddamn kids!”

  “Get ready,” I said to Heather. She lifted the binoculars to her eyes. I set my camera to zoom lens and poked my head out the window.

  Dressed in a ratty old robe, Meyers took a tentative step out his front door. I looked down at his feet. He was barefoot. How the heck did he think he was going to put out a fire with bare feet?

  I began clicking away on the camera while Heather fiddled with the focus on the binoculars. Meyers looked up, debating his options and I got a clear shot of his face. I turned to Heather. “Did you get a good look at him?” I asked.

  She nodded, the binoculars trained on the man standing on the porch. Only she wasn’t looking at his face. Her aim was significantly lower. I dropped my gaze down too, to see what had grabbed her attention. Oh crap.

  Meyers had whipped open his robe and was now playing fireman, hosing down the flames with a steady stream of urine.

  “Heather!” I yelled. “Unless he was waving hello to you with his dick you’re not going to be able to identify this guy unless you look at his face!”

  Heather went beet red. “Oh. Sorry, Brandy. I don’t get to see this very often… or ever.” Reluctantly she raised the binoculars upward. “That’s him,” she shouted. “That’s the guy I saw under your car.” Bingo!

  I picked up the camera and reviewed the pictures I’d taken of Meyers, figuring the police might want them. He didn’t look familiar to me, however something on his face caught my eye and suddenly this queasy feeling came over me and I thought I was going to lose the doughnuts. Right below Meyer’s left eye, a chunk of skin had been gouged out of his cheek. I flashed back on the night I was kidnapped and the precise moment the “Clear Knuckles” made contact with human flesh. Holy cow.

  Meyers finished his business and went back inside the house. I pulled out my phone and punched in Bobby’s number. He was just getting ready to head off for work and he sounded harried. I could hear Sophia wailing away in the background. Boy, that little girl had a set of lungs on her. “What’s wrong with Sophia?” I asked.

  “She’s mad because I told her she couldn’t eat her breakfast out of the dog’s bowl.”

  “Why not?” I asked. “I mean, if the dog is done with it…”

  Bobby did a big sigh. “Do you need something? Because now’s not a great time.”

  Actually, this could work to my advantage. I could tell him what I’d done and he wouldn’t have time to yell at me about it. I filled him in on the morning’s activities, ending with my suspicion that Meyers was the one who grabbed me in the parking lot. “So when are the cops gonna come and arrest him?” I said.

  Bobby laughed. “In a perfect world, sweetheart. Swing by the precinct and we’ll get yours and Heather’s statements and then we’ll send someone out to talk to this guy.”

  After a pit stop at the police station, we drove straight home. I was due at the doctor’s office to interview Laura’s brother and I still had to get changed.

  “Thanks for taking me with you, Brandy,” Heather said, as we got out of the car. “This was the best day of my life.”

  I got a lump in my throat, which I’m sure was because I’m getting a cold.

  Dr. Ethan Girard was movie star handsome. He had the astonishing good looks of a young Gregory Peck and the charm to match. Personally, I couldn’t imagine going to a doctor who looked that good. Our family physician, Dr. Powers, is about a hundred and four and deaf in one ear, but at least I’m not embarrassed to take off my clothes in front of him. Of course, he can’t see me anyway what with the cataracts and all.

  I sat across from Dr. Girard, discreetly crossing my legs as if I expected him to vault over the top of his highly polished cherry wood desk and commence to giving me a pap test. The nurse had escorted me into his office. Girard stood, shooting me a brief, quizzical look like he couldn’t quite place me. Being a C list television personality, I get that a lot. “I’m Dr. Girard,” he said, recovering. He flashed me a smile any orthodontist would be proud to take credit for. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  He was familiar to me too. His voice anyway and I mentioned this to him.

  “Are you a fan of NPR?” he asked. “I have a spot once a month on Saturday mornings. ‘Ask the Doctor.’”

  “Oh, that must be it,” I said, wanting to appear like someone who listened to National Public Radio instead of the Oldies station.

  “So, tell me,” Dr. Girard said, settling back in his leather bound chair. “When are you due?”

  “Due for what?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry. Didn’t you tell my receptionist you were here for an interview?”

  “Yes I did. And to be honest, I was surprised to hear you were granting interviews. This must be a very emotional time for you and your family.”

  Dr. Girard’s face clouded over. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Emily told me she booked you for a prospective doctor’s interview. If you’re not pregnant, why are you here?”

  Realization dawned and my heart sank to somewhere below my rib cage. The poor guy thought I was looking for an obstetrician.

  Oy. “Dr. Girard,” I began, “I am so sorry for not making myself clear. I’m a reporter and I’m here to talk to you about David Dwayne Harmon. As you’re no doubt aware, he’s scheduled to be executed next month.”

  Ethan Girard’s lips thinned. “I don’t mean to be rude, Ms. Alexander, but I’m sure you’ll understand if I ask you to leave. As you said, this is a very painful subject for my family and me. Our feelings on the matter of Mr. Harmon’s execution are not open for public scrutiny.”

  He began to rise out of his seat, even as I sat rooted to mine. I had to convince him to talk to me. “Dr. Girard, I can’t even pretend to understand the suffering your family has been put through, and I would never intentionally add to it. But there’s something I think you should know. If you would just please give me a few minutes of your time—I’ll be as brief as possible.”

  “No, let me be brief. About two months ago my stepfather had a massive stroke. He’s been in Hillgarden Convalescent Home since then and communicates by blinking his eyes and shaking his head. The day of his stroke, someone came to visit my parents—a reporter by the name of Tamra Rhineholt. I assume you’re familiar with her.”

  I nodded, speechless.

  “She misrepresented herself. Told my parents she was doing a story on ‘Old Philadelphia.’ My stepfather comes from a rather prestigious background. Anyway, when she got there Rhineholt told them the real purpose for her visit. She said she believed that the man who had been convicted by the courts for the rape and murder of my sister was innocent. The idea was ludicrous. There was enough evidence to convict that man ten times over.”

  “But what if it was false evidence?” I asked. “Wouldn’t you want to know?”

  “Were you there at the trial, Ms. Alexander?”

  “No,” I admitted. “I wasn’t.”

  “The man’s own lawyers wouldn’t let him testify because they knew the truth. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was guilty. And then, two months before he’s scheduled to die, this—this woman comes skulking around my parents’ home, stirring up horrific memories. And for what? A career boost? She couldn’t possibly think he was really innocent.

  “And if that weren’t enough, she went on to defame my baby sister’s character. She made absolutely vile accusations about her. Rhineholt alluded to the idea that Laura was some kind of sex crazed co-ed and that any number of men could have killed her. According to my mother, Rhineholt stopped this short of blaming Laura for what happened to her that night. My stepfather was devastated. Laura was the light of his life. He used to call her his little kitten.”

  Girard turned away, deep in thought. “My mother lost her only daughter and now thanks to Rhineholt, she could lose her husband too.” He looked back at me, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m a doctor, Ms. Alexander. I
bring life into the world. But God help me, I want that man dead.”

  “Did you want her dead too?” I asked softly.

  “What?”

  “Dr. Girard, are you aware that Tamra Rhineholt was murdered last week?”

  Girard stood, his handsome face distorted by quiet rage.

  “Get out,” he said. So I did.

  “What the hell were you thinking?”

  Why does everyone keep asking me that? I was standing in Eric’s office, watching as he paced a hole through his rug.

  “Ethan Girard’s family could buy and sell our station and you practically accused him of murdering Tamra. He’s already called here threatening a harassment suit.”

  “I didn’t accuse him. I asked him. Big difference.” The truth is I had no idea why those words had popped out of my mouth and I felt really awful about it. Girard was obviously in a lot of emotional pain. It hadn’t been my intention to add to it.

  “Look, Brandy, I’m not saying don’t do your job. But for Christ’s sake, be a little more sensitive.” Eric paused, eying me up and down. “And while you’re at it, could you do something with your hair? It looks like birds nested in it.”

  Okay, so my timing was terrible. But the more I thought about it, the less far fetched my question to Girard really was. After all, he had practically come right out and blamed Tamra for causing his stepfather’s stroke. Maybe he got carried away by his grief and went crazy. You hear about this kind of thing all the time. The Press hounds decent, law-abiding citizens until they can’t take any more and they just snap… on the other hand, Tamra’s murder seemed too well planned to be an act of spontaneous revenge.

  My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Lynne Schaffer’s voice, shrill and demanding, just outside the door. I walked into the hallway and found her with Craig. He looked to be in the throes of a nervous breakdown. Papers were scattered everywhere, with Craig on all-fours haphazardly trying to retrieve them. Lynne loomed above him, shouting insults at the poor kid. All she needed was a whip and thigh high boots to complete the tableau.