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

by Shelly Fredman

  “Nonsense,” my mother told her and promptly passed out on the floor.

  My dad wandered in from the kitchen. “What happened to your mother?”

  “A little too much celebrating,” I said.

  “I’m fine,” my mom mumbled from the rug. So that’s where I get it from.

  “Sure you are, Lorraine.” My dad helped her to her feet and led her up the stairs.

  I turned to Janine and held out my hands for the pitcher. “Nick just knows things,” I said. I took a large gulp and continued my saga.

  Fortunately for Nick, there was a witness—one that wasn’t in love with him and could give the cops an unbiased account of what had transpired. An ancient security guard employed by the nursing home to keep gang bangers from tagging the side of the building was standing in front of the reception area when Nick came in looking for Bill Stewart’s room. They were halfway down the hall when they heard me scream. The guard was more than happy to let Nick take care of Ethan, seeing as the only weapon he was packing was a rape whistle.

  When the police arrived he verified that Nick had shot Ethan in order to save my life. Ethan had died instantly. Afterwards, Nick and I didn’t have much of a chance to chat. I was too busy throwing up. Must have been all that stale candy I ate.

  “So how are you holding up, there, sunshine?” John asked.

  “Great,” I told him. “Couldn’t be better.” The door bell rang and I jumped a mile.

  “Uh huh,” he said, opening the front door to Paul and Uncle Frankie.

  “H-how’s mom?” Paul asked, after hugging the stuffing out of me.

  “She’s feeling no pain at the moment. And before you ask, Paulie, I’m okay. Really.”

  “She’s not,” John mouthed behind my back.

  “I saw that.”

  “Fine. I wasn’t trying to hide it from you. She’s not.” he said aloud. “She’s drowning her troubles in tequila. At least try the wine I brought. It’s more civilized.”

  DiCarlo showed up ten minutes later and I went into the kitchen to get more glasses. He followed me in. “Craig Newman pulled out of his coma tonight,” he told me.

  “You’re kidding.” A half a day sooner and it would have saved me a crap load of trouble.

  “You were right about everything,” Bobby said, taking the glasses down from the cabinet. “Craig met Girard at a fundraiser. Girard befriended him and then managed to convince the poor guy to spy on Tamra. He told Craig she was in way over her head with this investigation and if Harmon got out of prison he’d go after her next. By the time Craig figured out that he’d been duped, it was too late. He’d inadvertently given Girard a copy of the key to the Rhineholt’s house and now Ethan was threatening to expose him as Tamra’s killer. And if that wasn’t enough motivation to keep his mouth shut, Girard threatened to kill you.”

  Well, that explained Craig’s nightly vigils parked in front of my house.

  There was something else on Bobby’s mind. I could tell by the little vein on the side of his temple. “Bobby, it’s all over,” I reassured him. “This is good news.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “So then what’s wrong?”

  DiCarlo sighed. “Santiago saved your life tonight.”

  “Well, jeez, you don’t have to sound so disappointed about it.”

  “That’s not what I meant, Bran. It’s just that—he was there for you. I wasn’t.”

  I walked over to Bobby and slipped my arms around him. “If you had known, you would have been. There’s no doubt in my mind.” We hugged, grateful to be in each other’s lives. “So what happens to Harmon now?” I asked, after a beat.

  “Long story short, he’ll be released, which is a damn shame when you think about it. The guy may not have been responsible for killing Laura Stewart but society’s still better off with that bastard in jail.” Having met the man, I really couldn’t argue the point.

  I woke up at five a.m., fully dressed and face down on my bed. We’d run out of margarita mix sometime after midnight but luckily there was still plenty of tequila left. At one point Carla started singing “Wind Beneath My Wings” and caused a mass exodus. Having passed out somewhere between the tequila shooters and the Jello shots I was spared her rendition of “The Rose.”

  I lifted my head and found John to the left of me. Turning back the other way, Janine was on the right. They were dead to the world. I climbed over Johnny and made my way to the bathroom. Ten minutes later I was showered, dressed in fresh jeans and an El Duderino tee shirt and on my way downstairs.

  I turned on the television and caught the first wave of local news. Unhhh! There I was front and center as a recap of last night’s events paraded before me. I started to leave the room, but then the camera panned to the right and Nick appeared on screen. I stopped in my tracks and I’m pretty sure my heart stopped too. Resisting the urge to French kiss the television set, I stood there staring into the face of the man I loved.

  An attack of the crazies hit me like an All Points Bulletin. Oh my God. I have to go to him. Right now. It’s—what—five thirty? He must be up by now. I mean how long can a person sleep? I’ll just drop in for a quick hello. After all, the man saved my life for like the third time this week and I never even showed my appreciation. I know! I’ll take along a tray of my mom’s lasagna. After all, nothing says thank you like home baked shoe leather.

  In my sleep deprived, hangover-altered mind, I knew two things for sure. One, I had to tell Nick I loved him. And two, if I gave myself any time to think about it I would chicken out. I ran to the kitchen, grabbed the lasagna and headed out the door.

  It was still dark when I pulled into the loading zone. An early morning jogger was just coming out of the building and I squeezed on through the open security gate, flashing him an apologetic, “I forgot my key” smile.

  The elevator descended from the fourth floor. As I waited for it to arrive I got the vague feeling that maybe I should have called first, or better yet, stayed in bed and waited for John and Janine to wake up so that they could talk me out of coming altogether. But having little to no impulse control it really wouldn’t have made much difference.

  The elevator door opened and a woman stepped out. She was about my age and very beautiful. That vague feeling became a boulder in my chest, but I was on a mission and denial is my constant companion. I got into the elevator and pressed number four.

  Nick opened the door on my first knock. “Did you forget something?” he asked. “Oh,” he said, smiling. “Hello Angel, you’re up early.”

  “I… um… uh…” Oh jeez. He’s naked.

  “Come on in,” he said, thoroughly unselfconscious. Well, why not? He was perfect. “I’ve got to run in a minute. I have a meeting in Camden. But make yourself comfortable.” Nick disappeared into the bedroom.

  “No, no. That’s alright,” I babbled, clutching the lasagna to my chest. “You weren’t expecting me. I—I should have called first.”

  This cannot be happening. That woman I saw obviously just left here. What nerve! He saves my life and then goes home and has sex with someone else? If he was going to have sex with anyone after shooting Ethan, it should have been me!” The boulder slipped down into my stomach and stayed there.

  “Listen,” I shouted, entering the living room, “I’m just going to leave the lasagna here. My mother wanted you to have it while it was still fresh.” I was having a little trouble talking, what with battling hysteria and all.

  I was almost back across the room when Nick returned. He had put on a pair of faded jeans and a long sleeved black tee shirt. I was dressed in a huge winter coat and shaking uncontrollably. “Are you cold?” he asked.

  “No… yes… a little bit… I saw a woman coming out the elevator,” I blurted out. “Did she spend the night with you?” Oh crap, I did NOT just say that. “I’m sorry. It is so not my business.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay, Angel?”

  “Absolutely. I—I’ve got to get home. Bobby’s wai
ting for me.” I don’t know why I made that up. It was stupid, really.

  “So,” he said, “you and DiCarlo are back together then?”

  “Yep,” I told him, digging a nice deep hole for myself. “We sure are. We’re really in love.” Gaaah! I’m stealing dialogue straight from the Disney channel! “Listen, I just came here to thank you. I really have to go.”

  Nick looked at me with a mixture of concern and—fuck all—pity. “Not just yet.”

  I tried to bolt but he stood in front of the door blocking my exit.

  “What?”

  “You’re not in love with DiCarlo, Brandy.”

  “And how the hell would you know that?”

  “Because you’re in love with me,” he said simply and without a shred of arrogance.

  I froze. “No I’m not.”

  “Yes, darlin’, you are.”

  “Nick,” I groaned, too tired to deny it. “Could we just not talk about this? Could we just—not?”

  He leaned in to me, cupping my chin in his hands. “Look at me, Brandy.”

  I shut my eyes tight, in the hopes that he’d get bored and leave.

  “C’mon darlin’, look at me.”

  I sighed and opened my eyes again.

  His voice gentled. “I don’t want to hurt you, Angel. The truth is you’re one of the few people in the world I’d call my friend. But you want me to love you and that’s not going to happen. I enjoy women. I don’t get attached to them. It’s not in my make-up.”

  I nodded as the full force of his words sunk in. Nick doesn’t love me.

  When I was a little girl whenever I felt sad or hurt I’d try to fool everyone into thinking I was okay by flashing what my mom referred to as my “brave smile.” I really thought that I was fooling everyone, but my mom said it was, in fact, heartbreaking. I’ve perfected it since then. I was sure of it. To prove this, I flashed him one now.

  “It’s no big deal, Nick, really. I’m fine. Just a little tired is all. Listen, I’m gonna go now. I’ll make sure you get the truck back this afternoon. Thanks for the loan—and— um, I’ll see you around.” And with that stellar speech I burst into tears.

  “Just—tired—is—all,” I reiterated, feeling like a complete idiot. I pulled a wad of tissue out of my coat pocket and blew my nose.

  He stood there, staring at me for what seemed like an eternity, then he checked his watch and sighed deeply. “Angel, I hate to do this to you, but I’ve really got to run. Stay here for as long as you need to.” He pulled me to him and kissed me on the forehead. “Take care of yourself, Brandy Alexander.” And he was gone.

  Humiliation and a deep sense of loss washed over me and I cried myself silly. I missed him already and he was only officially out of my life for a minute and a half.

  After another round of tears, I went in search of more tissue. There was probably some in the bathroom, but Nick’s bedroom was the more compelling choice. I opened the door slowly, in case there was another woman in his bed that he’d forgotten to mention. It was empty. Thank God for small favors.

  The early morning light cast dim shadows on the wall. The bed was rumpled and without thinking, I picked up his pillow and held it to my cheek. It smelled like Nick. Just Nick.

  Moments passed as I stood there taking everything in, committing it all to memory. Because I knew I wouldn’t be back. Nick doesn’t love me. I’m his friend, but he doesn’t love me.

  I stared at the bed until snot began to drip down towards my upper lip, reminding me of why I’d come into the room in the first place. Tissue. Right. I opened the night stand drawer and my heart lurched. Nestled between the Buddhist Bible and a nine mm Glock was a photograph. John’s photograph. Of me. Oh—My—God…

  Epilogue

  “Bran, we need to talk,” John said, looking serious.

  It was the day after my brother officially “became a man” and John had offered to take me to lunch. We were seated at a corner table, upstairs at Ralph’s Italian Restaurant, a South Philly institution. I’d ordered the Giambotte and mussels. And a side salad. And dessert. I was really hungry.

  “Huh…” I said. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

  “Probably not. It’s chock full of sentimental overtones.”

  “Oh, man,” I sulked. I should’ve known there was no such thing as a free lunch. “Well, let’s get it over with.”

  John reached across the table and took my hand. “Look, kiddo, remember when we were fifteen and I tried to tell you who I am? I was really struggling to find the words and you rescued me. You said, ‘I know who you are, and I love who you are.’”

  “I said that?”

  “Yeah. I wrote it in my diary.”

  “You’re such a girl,” I told him and punched him in the arm with my free hand.

  John sighed. “The point is you saved my life that day and I owe you the truth. Sunshine, you’re a mess. You can’t do this on your own and I can’t help you.” He tucked a folded piece of paper into my hand. “Here’s the number for a very good therapist. Call her. Do it for me. Because I love who you are and I want you back.”

  The events of the past few months had taken such a toll on me I could barely recognize myself anymore. I wanted me back too.

  I looked up at Johnny and smiled. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll give her a call.”

  About the Author

  Former Philadelphian Shelly Fredman is the author of the No Such Thing As A… Brandy Alexander Mystery series. She is a firm believer in the magical powers of chocolate and enjoys spending time with the multitude of characters that have taken up residence in her head.