No Such Thing as a Free Lunch (No Such Thing As...: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (22 page)

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.

“I’m s-so sorry, Lynne,” he stuttered. “It was an accident.”

“What’s the problem?” I asked, bending down to help him.

“This cretin crashed right into me. That’s what we get for hiring the handicapped,” Lynne muttered to no one in particular, as I’m sure I was included in her assessment of the hired help.

Technically I did not push her down. I just sort’ve accidentally bumped into her when I stood up and in a blink she was on her ass. “Ooh, sorry, Lynne. You okay?”

“You did that on purpose,” she screamed, struggling to right herself.

“Prove it.” I scooped up the rest of the papers and helped Craig to his feet.

Craig looked up gratefully. There were deep circles under his eyes. It was like looking in a mirror. “I have to get this script over to the set,” he said. “I’m late. They’re waiting for me.”

I put a protective arm around his shoulder. “Come on. I’ll walk you.”

Something was bothering Craig and it wasn’t just the run-in with Lynne. I knew it by the way he kept sneaking looks in my direction, like he was expecting me to implode at any minute. An uneasy feeling settled over me. If he had something to say I wished he’d just come out and say it.

As if he could read my mind, Craig turned to me, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I know you’re trying to find out who killed Tamra, but you have to stop. I—I don’t want you to get hurt.”

My nerves went on red alert. “Craig, do you know something? Because if you do—”

Craig gave his head an emphatic shake. “I don’t know anything,” he said, grabbing the script pages out of my hand. “I have to go.”

“No, wait,” I said. But he’d already disappeared through the set door.

I stood there, dumbfounded. Obviously, Craig was worried about me. But was it out of general concern for my safety, the way you’d warn someone not to play in traffic?
Or did he have specific information that my health was about to be severely compromised?

I thought back on the events of the past few days; the misspelled note warning me not to interfere in Harmon’s execution, the white Corolla parked across the street from my house. Craig looked about ready to keel over from exhaustion. Could it possibly be from one too many late nights parked outside my door? I was about to find out.

It was lunch time, and in an effort to soothe Lynne’s wounded pride, Eric was springing for hoagies. Seems Lynne was still pissed about me pushing her down. Well tough. She’d been beggin’ for it.

Eric sent Craig to pick up lunch. I waited as he entered the elevator and punched the button for Lower Level parking and then I took off running down the stairs. When I got to the bottom I hung back until Craig emerged from the elevator. He dragged his feet slowly, as if carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. I trailed him while he worked his way through the parking structure. After a few minutes he finally reached his car. A white Toyota Corolla.
Big surprise
.

What the hell was Craig doing stalking me? Oh my God. Could he be in cahoots with Zach Meyers? What if it’s Craig’s finger that’s sitting in the ice tray in Nick’s mini fridge?
I shut my eyes and tried to envision Craig bending down, picking up the script pages. Nope, all digits were present and accounted for. That was a relief. Anyway, in my heart I couldn’t imagine Craig purposely setting out to hurt anyone.

I knew I should call Bobby and let him in on this latest development, but I just couldn’t bring myself to rat Craig out. He was scared, and in his own weird way I believed he was trying to protect me. But from who?

I stayed hidden until Craig pulled out of the lot and then I went back upstairs. I nabbed Eric in the hallway. “Hey, Eric, what’s the name of the work placement program Craig came to us through?” I asked.

“Helping Hands. Why?”

“I thought I’d give them a call and let them know what a great job he’s doing.”

The truth is I didn’t trust my own instincts anymore. Was Craig the innocent soul I believed he was or some diabolical monster who was faking mild retardation in order to gain the trust of the people around him?

I typed in Helping Hands on my computer. According to their website, the organization had been in existence since 1994 and had been honored last year by the mayor at his annual Humanitarian Awards dinner. There was a lengthy article accompanied by a picture of their Board of Directors. The board was comprised of about twenty people who were virtual strangers to me along with one very recent acquaintance. Dr. Ethan Girard.
Well, what do you know.

A very nice lady named Mrs. Wyland answered the phone. Yes, she knew Craig quite well. He’d been a part of the program since he was sixteen. She was pleased to hear he was doing so well at the station.

“I was looking over your website and I noticed my friend’s obstetrician is on your board of directors. Dr. Girard?”

"Oh, yes. He is such a nice man. He’s been very active in our fund raising efforts.”

“Boy, that sounds just like him,” I chuckled. “How active is he in the daily operations of Helping Hands?”