No Such Thing as a Free Lunch (No Such Thing As...: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (13 page)

“Hello?” I said into the phone.

“Brandy, this is Kylie Morgan. You left me a message?”

“Oh, hi,” I said, tucking in my shirt. “Thanks for calling back. Um, could you hang on for just a second?” I held my hand over the receiver. “Bobby, I’ve got to get some papers from upstairs. I’ll be right back.”

I dashed up the steps two at a time. Now was not the time to tell him I was assigned to this investigation. I thought about when
would
be a good time.
Possibly never.

I took the call in my bedroom. Kylie confirmed that she did have an appointment with Tamra to talk about her friendship with Laura Stewart and her recollections of her. She agreed to meet with me the following day.

I hung up the phone, walked into the hallway and ran smack into Bobby. “Hi,” he grinned, backing me into the bedroom. “Now, where were we?”

“Whoa! We weren’t
there
,” I said, yanking his hand out of the waistband of my pants.

“But that’s where I want to be.” His voice had gone all husky and serious and it went straight to the pit of my stomach. He put his arms around me and I could feel how serious he was through the crotch of his jeans.

“I’ve got to be honest with you, sweetheart, except for Sophia, my life has been shit these past few years.” Before I could say anything he added, “I did it to myself, I know. And I screwed you over in the process. But the way I look at it, we’ve got a chance to start over. And this,” he said, pulling me towards him, “would be an excellent place to start.”

He began a slow assault on my neck; open-mouthed kisses that left me breathless and wanting a whole lot more. I strained against him and we fell back onto the bed. Soon, my shirt found its way to the floor and Bobby’s wasn’t far behind.
“You go girl,”
said the little voice in my head, and I was about to do just that, when another voice, louder and oh so familiar began calling my name.

“Brandy, we’re heeerre!”

“Holy shit, it’s my mother!”

I bolted upright, grabbed my shirt and began a frantic search for my bra.

“How the hell did they get into the house?” Bobby barked, scrambling around for his pants.

“Shhh! They’ll hear you. I left a key under the mat, in case I wasn’t home. They’re not supposed to be here until tomorrow!”

“Brandy, are you up there?”

I stuck my head out into the hall. “Hey, you’re here! Great! Give me a second and I’ll be right down.” I turned to Bobby. “You’ve got to get out of here!”

“Whadya think I’m
tryin
’ to do?” He grabbed his shirt off the floor, yanked it over his head and started for the door.

I hauled him back inside the bedroom. “You can’t go out that way. They’ll see you.”

Bobby sank back down on the bed. “Well, what do you expect me to do? Climb down the trellis?”

I walked over to the window and opened it.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Hey, it was good enough for you twelve years ago…”

“Jesus, Brandy, we were just kids then. We’re adults now. We’re entitled to do… what adults do.”

“Brandy Renee!” The voice was coming closer.

Bobby leaped up and bolted towards the window. “Man, I forgot one thing,” he whispered.

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“Your mom’s scary.” He gave me a quick kiss and climbed out the window.

Bobby was wrong. He’d forgotten
two
things and my mother was holding them in her hand. “Whose boots are these?” she asked, entering my bedroom.

“Mom!” I said, throwing my arms around her. “I’m so glad to see you. Those are Paul’s. You know how forgetful he is. Where’s dad?” I took the shoes from her and set them on the floor. “You must be exhausted.” I turned her around and directed her to the top of the stairs. “I’ll be down in a minute and we’ll have a nice long chat. ’k?”

I shut the door, ran to the window and looked out. Bobby was standing on the sidewalk, looking up at my bedroom window. He was barefoot. I opened the window and tossed out his boots, accidentally hitting him in the head. I winced.

“Brandy,” my mother said through the closed door. “Next time tell Bobby to use the front door like a normal person. You aren’t kids anymore.”

It was like they’d never left. Within a half hour of their arrival, my dad was sitting on the couch, remote in hand, alternating between the History Channel and the Food Network (my dad has a little crush on Rachel Ray). My mother had commandeered the kitchen and was preparing her “famous Spaghetti Marinara” for Saturday night’s dinner. I tried to warn her that Rocky has a “thing” about red sauce and if she didn’t keep an eye on her, the secret ingredient in the meal would likely end up being cat fur. She told me to “get the damn cat” off
her
counter and then she sent me to my room. (Swear to God.)

Kylie Morgan sat at a table in the back room of the Country Club Restaurant, located in the Northeast section of the city. I recognized her immediately by her description. Long blond hair pulled back in a pony tail, wearing a navy blue hooded sweatshirt with the name of her school emblazoned on the front. She was a grad student at Drexel University, working part time at a senior center on Cottman Avenue.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet with me,” I said, after the introductions had been made.

“Oh, no problem. Actually, I was curious,” Kylie admitted. “When Ms. Rhineholt contacted me, I’d told her I didn’t know Laura all that well. I don’t think anyone did. She said she wanted to meet with me anyway; that I might recall something that, at the time, I was maybe too traumatized to think about. I was there the night Laura met that guy at the bar,” she clarified. She lowered her eyes, remembering. “We had to talk her into coming out with us. She seemed so tightly wound all the time. We thought she could use a little fun in her life, you know? Afterwards, we all felt so responsible… I just don’t know what I could tell Ms. Rhineholt—or you—that I didn’t already tell the police.”

I studied her a minute. “You said you were curious. About what?”

“Well, two things really.” Kylie let out a nervous laugh. “It seemed so obvious that David Dwayne Harmon is guilty. I mean all that evidence. And he had a history of violence…” I was very familiar with Harmon’s background. I’d been up until four in the morning going over the transcripts of the trial. He was not a nice guy by anyone’s standards. “So if a jury of his peers convicted him,” Kylie continued, “why would Ms. Rhineholt think he might be innocent?”

So that was it. Tamra must have somehow become convinced that the state had prosecuted the wrong person. Holy cow. The guy is set to fry in less than a month. Oh man, what could Tamra possibly have discovered that would help prove Harmon’s innocence?

“You said there were two things you were curious about,” I reminded Kylie. “What was the other one?”

“Well, I know this is none of my business” she blushed, “but I was wondering. What would make a successful person like Tamra Rhineholt want to kill herself?”

And that’s the million dollar question.

Country Club Restaurant is famous for their cheesecakes. They’re way better than Wendy’s, I’m sure of it, so I got a whole one to go. It helped to soften the blow of Kylie not being a whole lot of help.

“Kylie,” I said, taking one last stab at it as we stood in the parking lot, “I know you’d said Laura was difficult to get to know. That she kept to herself, didn’t share her personal life with you. But there must be something. No matter how insignificant it seemed at the time.”

Kylie squinted her eyes at the harsh winter sunlight, thinking. “I don’t know if this is what you’re looking for, but I remember giving Laura a ride home from school one day. We were riding around near down town, and you know the big Lutheran church at the corner of 17
^th
and Maple?” I nodded. “Well, there’s this small, red brick apartment building right next door to it, and as we’re driving by, Laura goes, “That’s my shrink’s building. Dr. Applebaum.”

“Her shrink? Are you sure?” There was no record in the transcripts of Laura going to a therapist, and I was pretty sure that in a murder trial the defense would be interested in that bit of information.

“I’m sure,” said Kylie, shaking her blond ponytail.

“Did you mention it to the police?”

“No. It was a fleeting remark. Right after she’d said it, she’d changed the subject really quickly, like she was sorry she’d let it slip out. I—I didn’t think it was anything worth mentioning.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said, feeling sorry for her. She felt guilty enough already.

So, unbeknownst to the general public, Laura Stewart was seeing a therapist. I wondered why he hadn’t come forward after she was killed. Well, I was going to find out.

I sat in the car and punched in 411 on the cell phone. There was no listing for a Dr. Applebaum on Maple, however, the directory showed one for a Peter Applebaum. I jotted down the number and was about to call him when I thought better of it and decided to check it out in person. One of the advantages of being on television is people tend to feel like they know you and are more likely to open up.

On the way over I rehearsed what I was going to say. What with doctor-patient confidentiality and all, I didn’t know how much Dr. Applebaum would be willing to share. This was just a shot in the dark anyway. For all I knew, Laura was a bed-wetter or addicted to on-line shopping. Not exactly the deep dark secret I was looking for, but it was the only lead I had.

Peter Applebaum lived on a quiet street in a quaint four-plex, half-hidden by ancient, giant Maple trees. I walked up to the mailboxes and checked for Peter’s apartment number. 1A.

I rang the bell and waited. A few minutes later the door opened and I was greeted by a middle-aged man in a wheelchair.

“Oh, hello. I thought you were U.P.S. I was expecting a package.”

I tried not to stare at the wheelchair. The man was good-looking, with an athletic build and a nice, friendly smile. I concentrated on that and smiled back at him. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you. I was looking for a Dr. Applebaum.”

His smile faded slightly. “May I ask why?”

“Are you Dr. Applebaum?”

“Actually, Dr. Applebaum was my wife. She died several years ago.”

My heart took a dive into my stomach. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” I didn’t know what to say after that. It seemed insensitive to do anything but leave. Luckily, Mr. Applebaum was a fan of early morning news shows.

“You look familiar,” he said. “Aren’t you uh… wait, I’ve got it,” he scrunched his face up in concentration. “Whisky?”

I laughed. “Brandy. Alexander, WINN news.” I extended my arm and he gave me a warm handshake.

A few minutes later I found myself sitting in Peter’s living room, a spacious area that opened up into the kitchen. There were stairs leading to a second floor, “Traci’s old office,” he explained to me. “We bought the place upstairs so that she could work from home. Patients used to come in through the staircase outside. I keep thinking one day I’ll get one of those stairway lifts for inside the house, but since Traci’s been gone, I just haven’t been able to bring myself to go up there.”

Once again, I was caught not knowing what to say. It took everything I had not to burst into tears.

“So, how can I help you?” Peter started.

I explained to him about Tamra’s death and the story she had been working on before she died. “Tamra was convinced that David Dwayne Harmon, the guy who was convicted of the murder, is innocent.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Peter said. “What does all this have to do with my wife?”

“I met with an old friend of Laura’s, the girl who died. She said that four years ago, Laura was seeing a therapist. A Dr. Applebaum. Apparently, Laura was a patient of your wife’s. I don’t know if you still have those patient files around, but if so, would there be any way I could get a look at them? I’m hoping that somewhere in Laura’s files there’s a clue that would substantiate Tamra’s theory about Harmon. I’m not looking to make a name for myself,” I felt compelled to add. “I’m just trying to find out what really happened. Tamra was my friend. I think maybe she was getting too close to the truth about who really killed Laura so she was murdered. And if I can’t prove it, Harmon’s going to be executed for a crime he didn’t commit.”

Peter sat back in his chair, thinking. “I wish I could help you,” he said, finally, but I don’t have Traci’s files anymore.”

“What happened to them?”

“Traci had a living will,” he explained. “In it, she specified that if she died unexpectedly, her patient files would go to her colleague, Dr. Ann Levi. This is common practice,” he added. “I’d be happy to give you Dr. Levi’s number.”

“Thanks. That would be really helpful.”

As I got ready to leave, the part of my brain that’s supposed to keep me from shooting off my mouth malfunctioned and I heard myself asking Peter about how he lost the use of his legs.

“Car accident,” he said. “That’s how Traci died.” He began to well up and I instantly regretted my question.

“I’m sorry. It was rude of me to ask.”

Peter shook his head. “No, it’s been four years—I should be over it by now, but sometimes the guilt just eats away at me. It was my fault,” he ended, choking on the words.

“It was an
accident
,” I said, having no idea how to comfort this man.

“It could have been prevented if I hadn’t been so stubborn. We were in Traci’s car and I’d insisted on driving. I thought she was too upset to drive.” He gave a rueful snort. “We’d been burglarized the night before—actually, Traci’s office was. Goddamn drug addicts. They broke open her cabinets and stole all the drug samples. My mind was on the break-in. A car came out of nowhere and—” He looked up giving me a grim smile. “I guess I could use a trip to Dr. Levi’s myself.”

Dr. Levi was in her office when I called. I introduced myself and told her that Peter Applebaum suggested I get in touch with her. After filling her in, I asked if she was still in possession of Laura’s files.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I never received those files.”

“Oh, but I thought that Dr. Applebaum turned all of her patients over to you.”