No Such Thing as a Free Lunch (No Such Thing As...: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (31 page)

But if Dr. Applebaum read the entry, when she heard that Laura had been murdered, why didn’t she tell the police about Ethan going over there that night… unless she hadn’t heard about Laura’s death right away. There was only a small window of time between Laura’s murder and Traci’s car “accident.” And even if she had heard about it, Harmon was such a despicable character it would be easy to assume he was guilty.

I began silently tallying up the death toll. How could Girard be responsible for so many shattered lives? I mean once you get the hang of killing, is it just that much easier to take another life and then another? It really did seem to be the ultimate in sick ironic humor that the guy’s chosen profession was an obstetrician.
“Give a life, take a life, that’s my motto!”
What a world.

I put the books back on the shelves and straightened up as best I could. Then I took Laura’s journal and locked up Dr. Applebaum’s office, pausing to pick up the photos on the desk.

Peter was waiting for me at the door, his wheel chair blocking the entrance. He smiled apologetically and rolled out of the way.

“I thought you might want these,” I said, placing the photos in his lap.

He studied them for a moment, a sad smile flickering across his face. “Did you get what you were looking for?” he asked.

“I did,” I said, holding up the journal. “We’re not there yet, but we’re getting there.”

On the way home I put in a call to Eric. I really didn’t want to go into the office and run the risk of being on the receiving end of one Lynne’s snotty remarks. I’d gotten away with knocking her over once, but I wasn’t sure it would fly a second time around.

Also, I was sort of wondering if I still had a job. Wendy was back full force. I’d caught her on the news this morning, sitting in as one of the judges in a local “Oprah Winfrey Look-Alike Contest.” Boy, some of those people didn’t even remotely look like Oprah. I think one lady had mixed her up with Weezy from The Jeffersons.

Eric was in a meeting, so I left a message for him to call me. I also called Bobby and got his voicemail, so I left a message for him too, telling him to get in touch with me ASAP. For all of our disagreements, I know Bobby trusts my instincts. I needed him on my side if I was going to present a case to the police, and I couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. Lives were depending on me.

It was past lunch time and I was starving. I hadn’t eaten anything since the ice cream, half a moldy candy bar not withstanding. I cruised down South Street in Nick’s truck, looking for the new Indian restaurant that had just opened up. According to Carla, the food isn’t very good but they give you a lot.

I passed by Lucinda’s gallery and spotted Johnny climbing out of his BMW. I double parked next to him and honked. He pretended like he didn’t know I was there and kept walking, head down, as if being buffeted by high winds. I opened the passenger side window, leaned across the seat and yelled out the window.

“Yo, jerk-o. I know you see me.”

John looked up, a sheepish grin plastered to his face. He walked over to the truck and leaned in through the window.

“So how’s it goin’?” he asked.

I climbed out of the truck and came around to the side where John stood. I was wearing my shitkicker boots with the two inch heels so we were eye to eye. “You tell me John. Did you get my photo back?”

“Oh yeah, about that. Funny thing. Um, not yet.”

Unhhh! I sat down hard on the hood of Nick’s truck and jammed my fists into my pockets to keep from popping John one. “John, the one thing,
the one thing
I asked you not to do.”

“I swear to God, it wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t there. Lucinda must’ve sold it by accident. I haven’t seen her so I didn’t get a chance to ask.”

I looked beyond John into the gallery’s big picture window. I could see movement in the room and the bony presence of its owner. “She’s in there now. Let’s go ask her who bought it and get it back.”

I jumped off the hood, all set to march through the doors, but John caught me by the arm. “That’s not such a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“The thing is after the other night, you’ve sort’ve been banned from the gallery.”

“What?”

“Honey, you’re lucky she didn’t charge you with grand theft. That photo sold for $1200.00 bucks.”

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

John actually had the audacity to be offended. “I happen to be an artist of some renown here. Any collector would be proud to own my work.”

He began waxing poetic about his pictorial achievements but I wasn’t really listening. I was too busy trying not to cry. I guess John picked up on the psychic vibes, or else it was the tears of frustration that were beginning to well up and spill down my cheeks that gave me away. Whatever, he stopped talking and put his arm around me.

“Okay, Sunshine, what’s this really about?”

“My life is so out of control, John,” I wailed, choking back little snuffling noises.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

“You mean it shows?”

“Just a little.” John reached into his coat pocket and extracted a travel packet of Kleenex. “Here,” he said, handing it to me.

I took out a tissue and wiped my nose and then tried to hand him back the packet.

“That’s okay, you hang on to it. Look, sweetie,” he added, dropping his voice in the soothing way people do when addressing the mentally unstable, “I really am sorry about the photograph and I’ll do whatever I can to get it back for you. But there’s a bigger issue here.”

I felt the beginnings of a “heart to heart” coming on and began to panic. “John,” I told him, swiping the tears away with the back of my hand, “I just had a momentary lapse, brought on no doubt by near starvation. You really want to help me? Take me out to lunch. The ‘all-you-can-eat buffet’ down at Hannigan’s only lasts until three, so we’d better hurry.”

John shrugged his narrow shoulders in surrender. “Fine. I’ll take you to lunch. But we’re going to have this conversation sooner or later.”

Later, Johnny. Much later.

Hannigan’s is a combination Irish Pub-Nordic schmorgusborg. Even the beer tastes like herring. We took separate cars because I’d planned on heading over to the police station right after we ate.

I tried calling Bobby again, but he still didn’t pick up and my anxiety level was growing exponentially with every passing minute. Somehow I doubted that a “puff piece” reporter’s gut instincts would be enough to convince the cops to reopen the case.

I needed a credible witness to verify what I knew to be true. Unfortunately, anyone who fell into that category came with an obituary attached to them… all except for…

Ignoring the enormous “No left turn” sign at Broad and Walnut, I swung a u-ie and headed away from Hannigan’s. At the next red light I whipped out my phone and called John. I could hear plates clattering in the background.

“Hey, where are you?” John demanded. “They’re almost out of Swedish meatballs.”

“Listen,” I told him, “I’m gonna have to take a rain check on lunch. I think I’ve got a lead on this story I’ve been working on. Keep your fingers crossed that my hunch pans out. I could really use a break.”

“This must be big,” John said. “It’s not like you to pass up a free lunch.”

I clicked off with John and my stomach roared in protest. My digestive juices had been really looking forward to those meatballs. I punched in redial. “Can you get me some meatballs to go?” I asked. “And those little powdered cookies for dessert? I’ll swing by your place later to pick them up.”

The light turned green. I stepped on the gas and began slogging my way through mid-town traffic. I was headed for Hillgarden Convalescent Home, the current residence of Laura Stewart’s stroke-afflicted father, Bill. With any luck, I’d have my credible witness within the hour.

The way I figured it, Bill Stewart was my best hope—and my last chance—for finding out what really happened to Laura. According to Laura’s diary, she’d tried to talk to her dad about what was bothering her, but he’d refused to accept what she had to say.

On some level, Stewart had to have known what was going on between Ethan and Laura, but until she flat-out told him, he could go on denying the truth. But what if Tamra confirmed his suspicions the day she visited the house? Mrs. Stewart said Bill was very agitated after Tamra’s visit, but he wouldn’t discuss it with his wife. He did however, talk to Ethan.

Ethan had blamed Tamra for Mr. Stewart’s stroke. But Bill was alive and kicking after Tamara left, which was more than one could say after his conversation with his stepson. Maybe he’d put two and two together and realized that Laura’s murderer wasn’t some random stranger, but her own half brother.

Mrs. Stewart was so grateful that Ethan was there when Bill went down for the count. But there had been no one around to dispute Ethan’s version of what had taken place that night. What if Bill had confronted Ethan with his suspicions? Did the realization that his biggest nightmare was true cause Bill’s stroke?

If that were the case, Ethan would have a vested interest in seeing that his stepfather keep those suspicions to himself. For all anyone knew, Bill could have been unconscious for several life-threatening minutes before Ethan called the paramedics.

Would he have even made that call to 911, had his mother not walked into the den and discovered her husband lying half-dead on the floor?

I pulled up in front of Hillgarden Convalescent Home and jumped out of the truck. My grandmother had spent a fair amount of time at Hillgarden before she died so I knew my way around. There was a reception area on the first floor, with the patients’ rooms laid out in a square overlooking a garden.

My first order of business was to find out if anyone was in the room with Mr. Stewart, before I marched in demanding he rat out his stepson in the literal blink of an eye. This was going to be difficult enough without having to explain my presence there, should his wife be keeping a bedside vigil. I mean, what would I say?
“Nice to see you again, Mrs. Stewart. I just dropped by to collect incriminating evidence from your dying husband about your son, who, I’m pretty sure murdered your daughter… is this a good time?”

I began walking towards the reception area when I saw a man emerge from a room at the far end of the hallway. He was pushing a guy in a wheel chair, along with one of those portable stands that had an I.V. bag hanging from it. The rig got stuck in the door and I was about to run over and offer my assistance, when I recognized the man pushing the chair. It was Ethan and he was headed in my direction. Oy.

Since I didn’t have time to whip out the Groucho glasses and fake mustache, I yanked up my hood and turned my back to them, finding a sudden interest in the abstract paintings hanging on the wall. As they shuffled past me I stole a glance at the two of them. Bill Stewart was strapped into his chair like the guest of honor at an electrocution. He was bundled in blankets up to his neck, his jaw muscles slack against his chest. The only sign of life was in his eyes, which were darting around in his head like a human pinball machine.

As they reached the visitors’ desk, Stewart raised his head to the receptionist and emitted a series of garbled sounds, his neck muscles straining from the effort. She smiled kindly at him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stewart, I can’t understand you.”

I gave myself points for not vaulting over the desk and shouting, “He clearly said, ‘Ethan’s trying to kill me,’ you moron,” and hunkered back against the wall.

“Claudia, I’m taking my stepfather out to the garden for a while,” Ethan cut in. “He seems a bit sluggish today. I think a change of scenery and some fresh air will do him good.” The poor guy didn’t seem sluggish to me. He seemed freakin’ terrified.

Stewart’s head began to rock back and forth, the noises emanating from his throat gaining momentum. Claudia praised his efforts like a proud mother. “Oh, Mr. Stewart, you’ve made so much progress over the past few days. You keep this up and you’ll be speaking again in no time.”

Ethan blanched under the fluorescent lighting. With Stewart starting to regain his speech, it would be only a matter of time before he’d be able to tell people what Ethan had done. That was the good news. It was also the bad news, since Ethan knew that and wasn’t shy about saving his own neck at the expense of someone else’s.

I didn’t think he would try anything with visitors and nursing home staff cruising around. I figured I’d wait until he left for the day and then go back in and talk to Bill.

I inched my way out the front door, ran back to the truck and hopped in. From this vantage point I could see both the courtyard and the front door of the convalescent home.

I was cold and hungry and I really had to pee. I popped open Nick’s glove compartment on the off chance he had a bag of M&M’s or a Snicker’s bar stashed away somewhere. All I could find was a box of raisins and they weren’t even chocolate coated. They were the regular kind and a little on the stale side. I poured out a handful and stuffed them into my mouth. Then I got out a pair of mini binoculars from my pocketbook, settled back in the seat and trained my eyes on the courtyard.

I don’t think I could make a career out of being a spy. Surveillance work isn’t really my thing. There’s too much waiting around for stuff to happen. I’m more of an “instant gratification” kind of gal. I put the binoculars back in my bag and waited some more.

To pass the time I drummed out Christmas carols on the dashboard and played a couple of games of Five Card Draw on my cell phone. That ate up about ten minutes. I was about to start making my birthday wish-list when the phone rang. I checked the readout and smiled.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hello, Angel.” Nick’s voice was rich and warm as hot fudge, and a rush of heat spread throughout my body. “Where are you?” he asked.

“I’m sitting in your truck outside Hillgarden Convalescent Home. Girard’s in there with his stepfather. I’m waiting for him to leave so that I can talk to Stewart.”

“Oh? What’s the occasion?”

“I found Laura’s journal. Ethan killed his sister, Nick. After reading her last entry, I’m sure of it and I think Stewart knows it too. I just need him to confirm it for me.”