No Such Thing as a Secret: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As...A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (10 page)

I studied the atmosphere shots. Men in leather. Men in chains. Men in men.
Ooh, more than I need to know.
I could not imagine germ phobic John getting close enough to any of these people to snap a picture. He must’ve used a zoom lens.

One picture in particular caught my eye. A young man sporting a dog collar was seated at the bar. Konner Novack. I recognized him from the newspaper article. Next to him sat another young man with light brown skin and short, spiky hair. Konner had his hand on the other man’s knee. They were laughing. What had Bobby said? The guy he was with had an airtight alibi for the time the murder had taken place.

I sorted through the other shots. Two more of Konner. They were blurry, but I could still make out his face, smiling, enjoying life, not a care in the world. Suddenly, I was irrevocably sad. Konner Novack, someone’s son, perhaps someone’s lover was dead. What kind of a person could willfully end someone’s life like that? A chill ran through my body; a chill so profound it actually made my teeth chatter. I gathered up the photographs and stacked them neatly on the bedside table. Then I tucked the comforter all around me, and for the second night in a row I cried myself to sleep.

I stared at the blank poster board in front of me, unsure of where to begin. I selected a black marker from the Crayola eight- pack and drew a line down the center of the board. On the left of the line I wrote
Things I Know
in big, bold letters. I chose another color, and on the right hand side I wrote
Things I Don’t Know.
Then I sat back to admire my handiwork.

I’d bought the poster board and markers at the Seven- Eleven, a few blocks away from the house. While I was there, I also picked up some milk, cheese, eggs, cereal, TastyKakes and a Score Bar.

I decided to eat something first, to get the brain in optimal working order. I made a cheese omelet and washed it down with a chocolate cupcake. That taken care of, I concentrated on the business at hand.

#1,
I wrote confidently, on the left hand side.
Konner Novack is dead
. On the corresponding line to the right I wrote,
Who killed Konner Novack?
On the left I added,
John’s photos reveal something
, and across from it,
What do they reveal? The police are involved in a cover-up
, on the left.
Is Bobby a part of the cover-up?
appeared on the right. On the left,
John is dead,
and on the right,
Who killed John?
I put down my marker and reviewed what I’d written. I picked up my marker again, and under “
Things I know,”
I wrote
I am an idiot
, accompanied on the right by
I don’t know SHIT!
UUNNHHH!

This was getting me nowhere. I put my head down on the dining room table, resting my cheek against the smooth, maple surface. I awoke ten minutes later to the sounds of a ringing bell. Feeling dazed, I got to my feet and stumbled towards the kitchen, grabbing the phone just before the machine picked up. “Hello?”

“What the hell is wrong with you, breaking into John’s apartment in the middle of the night, and why didn’t you ask me to come along?”

“Oh, hi, Fran. I guess Janine told you, huh?”

“Well, she tried not to, but you know Janine. She never could keep a secret. It’s genetic,” Fran added, in defense of her sister.

“So, what exactly did she tell you?”

“Everything.”

“Everything?”

“I can’t believe you’d leave me out of the loop, Brandy.”

“Well…” I wracked my brain for a reasonable response and came up empty, so I tried a diversionary tactic. “You have so much on your mind, what with the wedding and all. I didn’t want to add to your pressures.”
Or mine.

“About the wedding,” Franny interrupted, “I think we should call it off.”

“Franny, no!”

“Not the ceremony, just the reception. Without John there it wouldn’t be right.”

“Now, you listen to me, Francine Elizabeth Mary Ellen DiAngelo. You will do nothing of the sort. That is the last thing John would want, and frankly, we all need this wedding! It’s beautiful, and life-affirming, and—and all that crap.” She didn’t say anything for a beat, but I heard her blow her nose in the background. “Hey, are you crying?”

“Of course not,” Franny sniffed. “I’ve got a cold.”

“You are so crying.”

“Well, that stuff you said about my wedding being so beautiful, and life-affirming and all.”

“Fran, I’ve never known you to be so sensitive.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve never been pr—” She stopped, just a hair too late.

“Oh my God,” I shrieked, “you’re pregnant!”

“SSHHHH! You want the whole damn neighborhood to know?”

The thought of Franny “with child” was mind-boggling. I feel suffocated riding in the same elevator with anyone under the age of twelve. This news was huge.

“So, how do you feel about it?” I asked, tentatively.

“Well, at first, it was a shock. There is no way I felt ready, and the truth is,” she added, quietly, “I’d decided not to have it. But then yesterday, hearing the news about Johnny—” Her voice trailed off for a moment, and I could hear the tears welling up. “I’m just glad it wasn’t too late to change my mind.”

“Oh, Franny, that’s wonderful,” I said, meaning it. “Who else knows—I mean, besides Eddie. Eddie does know, right?”

“Of course he knows, and he’s thrilled. I mean we were planning on having kids. Maybe not this soon, but y’know, this is right for us. Only swear you won’t breathe a word to anyone. My mother thinks I’m a virgin.” I suppressed a laugh as she added, “I haven’t told a soul, except you.”

“What about Janine?”

“That big mouth?”

“Oh, right. Well, it goes both ways, Fran. You can’t tell anyone about what I’ve been up to in regards to John.”

“Don’t worry, not being able to keep a secret is only genetic on my dad’s side of the family. Fortunately, I take after my mother.”

We hung up after Franny extracted a promise from me to keep her updated on my investigation. That would be easy. Apparently, I suck at investigating.

I was on my way back to the dining room when the phone rang again. “Yo,” I chirped, figuring Franny had forgotten to tell me something.

“Brandy?”

“Yeah?” I was caught off guard by the male voice on the other end of the line.

“It’s Vince Giancola.”

“Oh, hey, Vince. What’s up?”

“My dad just told me about John Marchiano, and I know you guys were really close, so I wanted to, uh, offer my condolences.”

“Oh,” I replied, touched by his efforts. “That’s really thoughtful of you.”

“Yeah, well.” South Philly men are so comfortable with verbal displays of affection. I waited a beat. He didn’t say anything else, and I didn’t know what else to say, so I was all set to hang up, when an idea occurred to me.

“Listen Vince, I’m glad you called.”

“Yeah?” He sounded surprised, and
something else… hopeful?

“Yeah, there’s been something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” It really bothered me that he didn’t seem to know about John’s photographs.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you too,” Vince interjected, with a jaunty little chuckle. Very coy. Very un-Vince.

“Oh? What’s that?”

“No, you go first,” he teased.

“Okay,” I started, a little thrown off by his weirdness. “Um, something you said the other day—”

Vince cut me off in a rush of words. “Look, why don’t you meet me for a drink later on. I have to go into work for a while, but there’s this little bar and grill around the corner from my office. We could grab some dinner, catch up on things, maybe reminisce about the good times you, me, and John had in high school.”

Oh my god, the little weasel is asking me out. He is capitalizing on my grief over John to date me! I decided to go for the jugular.
“And which good times would those be, Vince? The time you dropped him head first into the trash can, or the time you “pantsed” him in front of the entire Girls’ Basketball team?”

There was silence on the other end of the line, and for a minute I thought he’d hung up. Finally, he spoke up. “I was a first class jerk back then. You don’t know how often I’ve wished I could go back in time and keep myself from doin’ that kinda shit.” He sounded so sad I decided to forgive him. Besides, I was getting hungry again.

“Dinner sounds good. Give me the address.” I jotted it down and told him I’d see him at five.

Paul’s Mercedes is a 1975, 450 SL, a two seater sports car convertible. It is gorgeous. Well, I would be too, if I were as pampered as this set of wheels. He keeps the car encased in plastic. It only sees the light of day twice a year, once in the summer, to remove the hard top, and again after Labor Day, to stick it back on. If the car could talk I’m sure it would say, “Thank you, Auntie Brandy, for setting me free.”

I rode around for a little while looking for a place to park. Finally, I pulled into a spot off Arch Street. It was a tight fit and the front fender stuck out just a smidge, but not so’s you’d notice. Carefully, I checked the street parking for Tow Away Zone signs. Seeing none, I locked up and headed for the restaurant.

I was early so I thought I’d take the time to reacquaint myself with the city. The air had turned cooler, so I buttoned up my coat, an old navy blue pea jacket someone had left in my parents’ hall closet, eons ago. It smelled like wet dog, but it was warm. I guess I should have packed warmer clothes for the trip, but I didn’t have anything appropriate.

There’s not a huge need for a lot of cold weather clothes in Los Angeles.

I began to stroll down the tree-lined street. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the last remaining leaves of giant maples, casting a golden glow over the city. I stopped to examine a huge pile of fiery red leaves crowding the gutters. It looked so inviting I jumped right in, kicking up the heels of my hiking boots, in utter childlike abandon. I was enjoying myself immensely, when my foot came in contact with something squishy.

Too late, I remembered that I’m not in L.A., where pooper-scooper laws are considered the eleventh commandment. I looked down at my shoes. They were covered in dog poop. Eewww. Furiously, I began scraping the bottom of my shoes along the curb, using the leaves like toilet paper to wipe the tops. I succeeded in wiping most of it off, although a bit got smeared into the shoe leather. By the time I finished cleaning up, I was late and had to run a block and a half to the restaurant.

It took a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room. The ambiance of Henry’s Bar and Grill was white collar casual; wide leather booths, candles on the table, hardwood floors. I suspect they did the bulk of their business during the week, catering to the business lunch crowd.

It was fairly empty on this early Sunday evening. Vince was seated at the bar. He wore a soft, black pullover sweater and dark gray slacks. He looked nice. I glanced down at my standard issue jeans and wished that I’d taken the time to dress up a little. Oh well, the dog doody added that little something extra.

I walked over to where Vince sat, a big smile plastered on his face. As I got closer, the smile faltered and then disappeared altogether, to be replaced by a look of puzzlement and finally, disgust. “Christ, Brandy, you look like Hell.” He sniffed the air. “And why do I smell dog shit?”

“Well, that’s a lousy thing to say,” I sputtered. And then I caught sight of myself in the mirror, behind the bar. Aaahhh! Five days of minimal sleep and untold grief had turned me into a monster. A red-eyed, sallow-cheeked, scraggily haired, dog shit smelling freak. I’ll bet he was sorry he asked me out now! The thought did little to pacify me. Suddenly, the tears started to fall with no signs of stopping.

“Oh, man, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. You look swell. Really.”

“No, I don’t,” I sniffed. “I look hideous. You said so yourself.”

The host, a fresh-faced young girl in her late teens, approached us, oblivious to the unfolding drama. “Will you be staying for dinner?” she chirped.

Vince eyed me, afraid to open his mouth. I weighed my options. Go home now and eat Cheerios, or stay and make Vince pay through the nose for that crack about my appearance. I nodded briefly to the host, and she showed us to our table.

Vince settled into the booth while I veered off in the direction of the bathroom. Vince’s remark had hurt. He was right, I did look like hell, but he didn’t have to be so blunt about it. The florescent lighting did nothing to bolster my flagging spirits. I ran a comb through my hair, washed my face and cleaned my shoe. It helped a little, but I still looked like the “Bride of Frankenstein’s” unattractive sister. I
really
needed to get a decent night’s sleep!

When I got back to the table the waiter was there. I ordered a steak, medium rare, with wedge-cut fries on the side. Everything was a la carte and Vince was paying, so I also got a salad, soup and steamed broccoli. I didn’t plan on eating the broccoli. I just figured the smell would camouflage anything untoward left on my shoe.

Vince ordered a steak too and a bottle of Merlot. He poured me a glass and I chugged it down in three quick gulps. The wine mellowed me out a bit, and I sat back in the booth, relaxing into the plush leather seat. I looked over at Vince. He’s not a bad looking guy, actually. He’s got nice, even, white teeth, soft brown eyes and two pinchably chubby cheeks. He smiled tentatively at me and I smiled back, basking in the glow of the wine.

“You okay?” he ventured.

“Not really. I’m sorry about before.”

“It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not. It’s just—I haven’t been sleeping. This thing with John has really gotten to me.”

Vince reached across the table and grabbed my hand, giving it an awkward pat. The waiter chose that moment to arrive with our meal, and I silently thanked his impeccable timing. I extracted my hand from Vince’s and fell to eating.

Halfway through his steak he looked up at me. I’d torn through a bowl of French Onion soup, a mixed green salad, three-fourths of my filet and half a loaf of sourdough bread.