No Such Thing as a Free Lunch (No Such Thing As...: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (11 page)

It took me a minute to find the remote, because Rocky was using it as a teething ring. By the time I pried it out of her paws, it was time for weather and sports. “What’s going on?” I asked.

“New developments in the Tamra Rhineholt suicide story. Looks like it may not have been suicide after all.”

“What kind of new developments? Eric, are you telling me the police think she was murdered?” It was about friggin’ time.

“Why are you acting so surprised? Rumor has it you’ve been going around town screaming “murder” to anyone who’ll listen to you. So what have you got?” he asked.

“Not much,” I admitted. “At least nothing concrete. Eric, was Tamra working on a story about that guy on death row who’s scheduled to be executed next month.?”

“You mean Harmon? If she was, it wasn’t for me.”

Hmm…
“What do you know about her husband?”

“I met him once at the Christmas party last year. Seemed like a nice guy. I’d heard rumors that they weren’t getting along. What did you find out when you broke into their house?”

Jesus, does everybody know about that?
“I was just returning her house key!”

“Yeah, sure. Listen, come in early and we’ll talk about this. You’ve been itching to get a real story. This may be the one.”

“Really? Eric, you’re not just jerkin’ me around, are you? I mean, why me?”

“Alexander, it’s no secret you’re overqualified for the job you were hired for. And I know your heart’s not in it. But you take even the most crappy-assed assignment and turn it into a piece that’s worth watching. I want to see what you can do with something you actually care about.”

“Thank you,” I said, all misty-eyed.

“By the way,” he added, not missing a beat, “will you go out with me?”

“Fuck off, Eric.”

“Fair enough.”

A
t six a.m. I was startled out of a fitful sleep by a pounding on the front door. I had dozed off on the couch at around 2:00a.m. in the middle of reading another one of Jeff’s mind-numbing biology reports. I shoved Rocky off my lap and scrambled over to the door. Adrian growled and pawed at the rug. “Shh.” Cautiously, I stood on tip-toe and peered out the spy hole. A man with sandy colored hair and glasses peered back at me.
Holy cow, it’s Jeff!
He looked mad.

My heart leaped into my throat as I slowly began backing away from the door. Rhineholt stopped banging and leaned on the bell. The piercing ringtone was extra loud, to accommodate my nearly deaf grandmother, who owned the place years ago, before my parents moved in. I’d have to get that fixed—if I lived that long. Jeff looked
really
mad.

It didn’t appear that he was going to go away any time soon and the ringing doorbell was bound to start pissing off my neighbors, so I braced myself and called out, “May I help you?” Jeff stopped ringing and slumped against the door frame. I would have felt sorry for him had I not thought he was here to kill me.

“I need to talk to you,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. I couldn’t tell if it was overwhelming anger or sadness until he started to cry.
Crap
. I opened the door.

“I’m not sure that you should be here,” I said, through the storm door.

“That’s funny,” he replied. “I’m absolutely certain you shouldn’t have broken into my house last night, and yet there you were.”
How many times did I have to explain this? I had a key!

“Look, my life has been hell the last few days, and last night it got worse. Do you know the police were at my door until all hours? They got a court order to stop the cremation. Because of you they won’t even let me bury my wife. I just want to talk to you for a few minutes. I won’t stay long,” he added, starting to cry again.

“Hang on a second,” I said. I ran back into the living room to grab my cell phone and pepper spray out of my bag, and then I opened the storm door and stepped aside.

“Thank you,” Jeff said softly.

“I really don’t know what you want from me,” I said, following him into the living room. He sat down on the couch.

“I want to know why you think I murdered my wife. Haven’t I been through enough already without you spreading your insane ideas about me all around town?”

I was one hundred percent shocked. The Jersey police had totally blown me off. Even my nearest and dearest friends thought I had a screw loose. I didn’t know why the police suddenly decided to look more closely into Tamra’s death, but it could not have been my doing.

“Jeff,” I said. “I am so sorry about Tamra. I can’t imagine how you must feel. But I don’t for a minute think Tamra committed suicide. There are things you don’t know that led me to this conclusion. I told the police my theory and what I saw on the day Tamra and I had lunch. I never pointed a finger at you. It didn’t enter my mind to consider you a suspect. They drew their own conclusions about you.”

“Oh, so you’re just Googling me for the fun of it?”

“What?” I looked down at my computer screen. “Oh, that. I was just, um…”
Oh hell.

We went into the kitchen and I made us some coffee. Since I didn’t have a lot in the way of breakfast to offer my drop-in guest, I took some frozen Milky Ways out of the freezer and set them on the table. I waited a beat to see if he’d take one and when he didn’t I dove right in.
Ah, sugar. The breakfast of champions.

Jeff stared down at his coffee, his face contorted in unmistakable grief. “I didn’t kill my wife,” he stated flatly. “I loved her. I’m not saying our marriage was perfect. Far from it in fact. I guess you figured out I thought Tamra was having an affair.”

“Was she?” I asked gently.

“I don’t know. If she was, I pushed her into it. We’d been fighting a lot lately.”

“What about?”

Jeff shrugged. “Nothing and everything. You know how it is. I guess we let our careers become more important than our marriage. The night before she—she died, I asked her if she wanted a divorce. She said no and I believed her.”

“Then why did you leave? The kid next door said he saw you leaving your home with suitcases.”

“I was going to a seminar. I never would have left if I’d known she was so unhappy.”

“So you still think Tamra killed herself.”

“She’s had some problems with depression in the past. She’d been on anti-depressants. I don’t know. What else could it be? Who would want to kill my Tamra?”

You mean besides you?
For once, my filters were working and the words stayed in my head where they belonged. “Jeff,” I said, instead, “did Tamra ever mention anyone by the name of Richard?”

He shook his head. “Not that I recall. Why?”

Ignoring his question I asked, “Did she ever talk to you about stories she was working on?”

“Sometimes. What are you getting at?”

I picked up the last Milky Way and popped it in my mouth. “Tamra was known for her hard-hitting stories. She may have made some enemies along the way. What if somebody wanted revenge, or wanted to stop her from exposing critical information about them?” Jeff’s face crumbled and my heart went out to him. “I’m upsetting you. I’m sorry.”

“You really think she may have been murdered,” he said, as if seriously considering the possibility for the first time.

“I do.”

“If the autopsy report proves you right, the police are going to go after me, aren’t they?”

“They usually look at the spouse, first.”

“Do you think I’m guilty?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Thank you for your honesty,” he said, standing up. I stood too.

“Jeff, maybe the police will determine it was a suicide after all. But if not, there may be information on Tamra’s computer at home—clues that could point us in the right direction and take you out of the loop as a suspect. Would you mind if I had a look?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we should let the police handle this.”

“Think about it,” I said walking him to the door. “And Jeff—”

He looked up, his eyes welling up with tears. “I’m really sorry.”

On my way into work, I called Vince. “Have you heard about Tamra Rhineholt?” I asked. “They’ve blocked the cremation, pending an investigation into her death.”

“You asked me to look into it. I looked into it,” Vince said.

“Thanks, Vince.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank DiCarlo.”

“DiCarlo? What’s Bobby got to do with it?”

“Bobby called me and we talked. I guess he thought there was something to what you were saying, so we both put in some calls. I think he figured if the police start investigating, you’ll back off. I told him, ‘fat chance.’ Am I right?”

I wouldn’t dignify that with an answer. Besides, he already knew what it was.

I walked into work and saw that a crowd had gathered at my desk.
That’s so nice. Everyone’s heard about my ordeal and they’re rallying around me. This could be a real bonding opportunity.
Art looked over in my direction, his face positively beaming. Suddenly he burst into an off-key rendition of “For She’s A Jolly Good Fellow” and the whole gang joined in.
Wow. They’re really going all out.

I smiled and waved back and was about to walk over when Megan stopped me.

“Brandy, what are you doing here?”

“What do you mean? I work here.”

“But—I thought you were fired.”

“Fired? Why would you think that?”

“Well,” Megan blushed, “Lynne said Wendy was coming back to take over her old job as puff piece reporter, so naturally I thought…” Her voice trailed off as a large woman came up behind me, carrying a dessert tray. She was greeted with thunderous applause. “Everyone’s pretty excited,” Megan explained. “Wendy brought cheesecake.”

Eric stuck his head out of his office and crooked his finger at me, beckoning me forth. “I put you down the hall,” he said, “so you can have more privacy.”

I looked around at the crowd, which was now descending upon Wendy. “I don’t think that’s a huge problem, Eric. Nobody talks to me anyway.”

Seeing as I didn’t have a nice slab of cheesecake to slow me down like everyone else did, I was able to get right to work. I picked up the phone and called Graterford State Prison, where David Dwayne Harmon was living out his last days. They confirmed what I’d already suspected. Tamra visited Harmon on three occasions, all within the past six weeks.

Encouraged, I called Heather at the Department of Records. “Heather,” I said, when she got on the line, “I need a favor. Can you get me a copy of a transcript of a trial that took place four years ago?” The nice thing about Heather is she doesn’t ask a lot of questions. I gave her the case name and she promised to look into it and get back to me.

While I was waiting, I walked back to the newsroom. Wendy had left the empty cake plate sitting on Tamra’s desk. Tamra’s assistant, Craig, stared down at the plate, looking absolutely miserable.
Maybe he didn’t get offered any cheesecake either.

I wandered over to him and sat down. “Are you okay?” I asked. Tamra had once mentioned to me that Craig was a unique hire, having come to WINN through a program that provides placements for what we used to call “special” students. She liked him a lot and was really protective of him. From the look on his face I’d say the feeling was mutual.

“I can’t believe this happened,” he said, close to tears. “I’m supposed to clean out her desk, but I don’t know what to do with her stuff.”

“I’ll do it,” I volunteered. I needed an excuse to go through her desk anyway. “I’m sure her husband will want her personal effects.”

“Is it true that you were the one who found her?” he blurted out.

My stomach lurched at the memory. “Yeah,” I admitted. “I can’t get the image out of my mind.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the desk. “Sometimes I say things that are—you know—inappropriate.”

“Well, I can relate to that,” I told him.

Craig dropped his voice to a whisper. “I just can’t believe she’d do something like this.” He leaned forward until his head was practically in my lap. Somebody needed to explain to this guy about personal space.

“Can I ask you something, Randi?”

I let it slide. He had enough on his mind. “Shoot.” I picked up the cake plate and ran my finger over it, scraping off the little bit of icing that was stuck to the rim.

“I heard on the news last night that maybe Tamra didn’t kill herself after all.”

“Yeah, I heard that too.”

“I don’t mean to bring up bad memories,” he began, “but I’ve gotta know. I mean, you were there. You
saw
her. Do you think she could have been murdered?” His eyes widened.

“I don’t know,” I sighed.

“But why would anyone want to kill her?” he persisted.

“Craig, you worked closely with Tamra, so you probably knew more about her than I did.” I thought for a minute. “Do you recall her getting any threatening phone calls lately, or possibly hate mail?” Reporters are always targets for disgruntled nut-jobs. It comes with the territory. Craig slowly shook is head. I’d check with Eric. If she lodged a complaint there would be a record of it.

“Well, did you notice anything different about her, like a change in her personality?”

“Now that you mention it, she did seem sort of jumpy lately, but I just thought it’s because she wasn’t getting along with her husband. He used to call here all the time wanting to talk to her, and he’d get really upset when she wouldn’t come to the phone. They had a terrible fight one night when he came to pick her up after work. Hey, maybe
he
killed her.” The relief in his voice was puzzling.

“Do you remember what the fight was about?”

“He thought she was cheating on him. He called her awful names.”

So, Jeff has a temper.
I filed this away for later.

Craig stopped for a minute, thinking. “Randi, what will happen to Mittens if Jeff gets sent to prison? She’s such a sweet cat. I’m worried that she might get sent to an animal shelter and they’ll—you know.” He put his index finger up to his throat and started sawing away, just in case I
didn’t
know. “I really love Mittens. Do you think they’d let me take her?”