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

“Did you say something?” he whispered into my ear.

“No,” I squeaked, feeling the flush rise up from my nether regions. “Damn it’s hot in here.”

“Now for the tape.” Nick tore off a piece of tape and began to lift my shirt again.

I gently slapped his hand away. “I think I can take it from here,” I said.

“Well, I don’t know. This is a delicate operation. You really ought to leave it to a professional.”

“I’ll take my chances.” I took the tape from him and shoved it under my shirt, securing the wire in place. Nick caught my wrist as I began to tuck my shirt back into my jeans, all playfulness gone. He lifted my chin, commanding me to look at him, and there was an edge to his voice when he spoke.

“I meant it before when I said don’t take any chances. We don’t know what you could be walking into tonight. If you choose not to go there’s no shame in it.”

I gulped. Nick always seemed so in control. If he was concerned, then I should be full on freaking out. No, I’d come this far I had to see it through.

“I can do this Nick. I have to.” No other explanation seemed necessary.

“Let’s go.”

Mayor Bradley Richardson liked to describe himself as “a man of the people.” Judging by his zip code I believe he meant, “a man of the very rich people.” Richardson lived in an old moneyed section of Philadelphia called Chestnut Hill. Chestnut Hill is located along the border of Philadelphia and Montgomery County and is known for its magnificent old homes and sprawling mansions.

Germantown Avenue runs through the center of town. We traveled this route now, Nick at the wheel of a black Ford pickup truck, me staring vacantly out the window, trying not to throw up. A feeling of foreboding settled in the pit of my stomach and refused to budge. Maybe it was the culmination of everything that had happened during the week finally catching up to me, or the fact that all I’d eaten in the past twenty-four hours was a pack of stale peanut butter crackers and some baby aspirin.

We passed Cosimo’s Pizza and I almost asked if we could stop in for a slice. I don’t know what it is with me and life or death situations, but they always seem to make me hungry.

At five til nine we rounded Glen Oak Avenue and cruised down the tree-lined street, stopping briefly in front of a beautiful ivy covered three-story home. Set far back from the sidewalk, an enormous cobblestone driveway wound its way through a thickly wooded area that obscured the house from the general public.

“This is it,” Nick stated, pulling away from the curb and parking several hundred yards down the block. He cut the engine and unbuckled his seat belt. I reached up to my shirt and fingered the “wire” nervously.

“Testing, one, two, three,” I said into the air.

“Don’t worry, you’re all set. Just walk up to the door and ring the bell. I’m going to double back and position myself off the side entrance. The house has French doors leading out to a back patio. It looks like a tropical rain forest out there so I’ll be well hidden.”

“How do you know so much about the layout of the house?” I was very impressed, thinking he had somehow managed to obtain blue prints or something.

“I was here for a party once.” He shrugged. “Charity event.” The man never ceased to amaze me.

I had hoped he was going to kiss me for luck but Nick was in his professional mode, all quiet efficiency and intense focus. I guess under the circumstances I should be grateful he took his work seriously. With ever increasing nervousness I opened the door and shut it softly behind me. I forced myself not to look back at the car for fear that I’d chicken out and dive back in. Taking a slow deep breath I started down the street and up the long winding driveway to the mayor’s house.

It was dark when I got to the front door. No glowing porch light to welcome the intrepid blackmailer, only the crescent moon peering out from under a thick layer of clouds. Great. And me without my umbrella. I squared my shoulders and rang the bell and waited. And waited some more. Then I knocked loudly and waited some more. I was almost to the point of yoo-hooing, when on impulse I tried the doorknob. To my surprise it was unlocked.
Should I go in? Would that be rude, considering I was invited? Let’s see, I’m worrying about appearing rude to a murderer I’m purportedly here to blackmail.

I let myself in and switched on the hall light. As I stepped onto the marble entry, I was awed by the grandeur of what lay before me. A wide marble staircase wound its way to the second floor. Two Grecian urns six feet high stood on either side of the stairs, their estimated value that of the price of a small country. A dim light emanated from one of the rooms off the entryway. Soft, classical music was playing in the background. The music made the quiet all the more noticeable. I began walking towards the room with the light, scuffing my shitkickers along the floor just to make some noise. I would have been petrified if not for the fact that Nick was just outside the French doors, hidden in the bushes, listening to every sound I made.

“Hello,” I called out tentatively as I inched my way closer to what appeared to be the library. As I entered the room I noticed a man’s arm hanging limply over the arm of a Lazy Boy recliner. “Mr. Mayor, it’s Brandy Alexander. We had an appointment this evening.”

I worked my way around to the front of the chair positioning myself in front of him. “Mayor?” His eyes were closed, his head tilted slightly forward onto his chest. On his lap was a glass of what smelled like single malt. The glass had tipped over, spilling some of the contents onto his lap.
Oh great! He’s drunk. Drunk and unconscious. Now I’ll never get my confession.

I gave him a vigorous shake, hoping to rouse him to consciousness. That’s when I noticed the magazine lying at the foot of the recliner. It was torn to shreds, but I could still make out a few essential body parts and the title. “Secrets.” Well, not anymore. An empty plastic vial rested on the floor a few feet away from the magazine. I picked it up and looked at the label. It was a prescription for anti depressants, but the pills were nowhere to be found. Oh Shit.

I glanced back up at the mayor, who, thanks to my shaking, was now slumped totally forward and bent in half. I leaned over him, wishing I’d paid more attention in CPR class when I did a story on the Red Cross a few months back.

Wracking my brains to remember the procedure, I tentatively picked up his wrist and held it between my thumb and forefinger. Okay, no pulse. Not a good sign. I braced myself and tilted his head back. Spittle had formed at the corners of his mouth and was working its way down to his chin. Why hadn’t I noticed that before? I mentally went over the checklist. His skin felt cold, he wasn’t breathing, no heartbeat and I’m pretty sure he’d shit his pants.
Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck
.

“Nick,” I screamed. “Get in here. I need you!” I began pacing around the room wringing my hands, trying to digest what had happened.

Obviously they’d sent him an advanced copy of the magazine, and he was so freaked out by it he committed suicide. He drank some scotch and downed a bunch of pills and—

I stopped, suddenly aware that this scenario sounded very familiar. But why?

“Nick!” Where was he? I peered out the French doors, searching the back yard for signs of life. “Help!” I screeched, panic rising in my throat. I was stuck in a room with a dead guy and I didn’t know where Nick was.

I reached for the phone to call the police, when someone came up behind me and rested a hand on my wrist. “Oh thank God,” I breathed, turning around, but my relief was short-lived. The grip tightened.

“We meet again, Ms. Alexander. How delightful.”

Philip Gruber and I stood inches from each other, his left hand still wrapped around my wrist. In his right was a .38 caliber pistol, its cold nose pressed against my side like a persistent puppy. I froze as the blood drained from my face down to my legs, rendering them useless. “What? No hello?” He shrugged. “And here I thought we were pals. How’s the article coming along?”

Dizzy with panic, I fought to remain calm. Cautiously I glanced down. Maybe Gruber was known for his practical jokes, and what I’d mistaken for a real gun was actually a life-like water pistol. He’d “pull the trigger” and I’d get soaked and we’d both have a good laugh. “You sure fooled me,” I’d say.
Oh shit Brandy, focus!

I found my voice. “Mr. Gruber I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I was invited here by the mayor. I doubt he’d appreciate you manhandling me.”

“Oh I don’t think my friend Bradley is in a position to appreciate anything at the moment.” He shook his head mock ruefully and gestured towards the mayor’s inert body. “Shocking turn of events.”

“And what’s your part in all of this?” The words flew out of my mouth before rational thought had time to catch up to them.

Gruber’s mouth curved into a tight cruel smile. “You’re a bright girl, Ms. Alexander. It will be fun watching you
unravel the mystery.”
He said the last part in a Bella Lugosi accent. The man was clearly nuts.

Gruber prodded me with the pistol, toward the couch. He remained standing, one arm draped casually over the back of the mayor’s Lazy Boy. He was wearing a brown, turtleneck sweater under a designer sports coat, and Dockers. His feet were covered in brand new topsiders. Just your standard Ivy League psychopath. My eyes traveled to the French doors, willing them to open. Any minute now Nick would burst in and rescue me and this nightmare would be over.

“Looking for someone?”

I whipped my head back the other way. “No, I—”

“But of course, your associate, Nick. He did say he’d be right outside if you needed him.” He sighed, heaving Armani clad shoulders. “It’s so hard to find reliable help these days. By the way, you should have listened to him when he told you not to take any chances.”

What was going on? The man knew intimate details of our conversation. It was as if he’d been right in the room with us when we’d spoken. The light dawned and I leaned forward, concentrating my efforts on staying alive. “How’d you do it, Gruber? How’d you wire me for sound?”

“Bravo, Brandy. I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me. Remember when you visited me at my office? I had a feeling you were a nosy one. I watched you on the security monitor, rifling through my things. Don’t look so surprised. You should figure a person of my stature wouldn’t just leave you there to snoop freely. Anyway,” he continued, “when I realized you weren’t going to go away, I decided to keep a closer watch on you.” He tossed me my pocketbook. “Take a look under the flap.” Tucked in the corner under the leather flap was a listening device the size of a baby’s little toenail. “I’ll bet my bug’s smaller than your bug. Want to compare?”

He strolled over to me, leaning in to grasp the bottom of my shirt with his fingers. He was so close I could smell the Listerine on his breath. The thought of him touching me made my skin crawl. Quickly I reached under my shirt and grabbed the worthless mic and flung it across the room, all hope of rescue gone.

“What have you done with Nick?” I demanded.

“He’s—indisposed.”

“What do you mean, indisposed?” I shouted wildly.

His face twisted into a frightening grin. “Like I said, you’re a bright girl. You’ll figure it out.”

Oh my God. When I was in Gruber’s office he planted the bug in my purse, which meant he’d overheard our conversations. He knew Nick would be outside the house and he had him ambushed. It was naïve arrogance to think I could outsmart a mad man. I’d been warned; by his college classmates, by Bobby, by the sheer terror in his ex-wife’s voice, but I wouldn’t listen. All Nick wanted to do was keep me safe and now he was dead. I felt as if I’d been punched hard in the gut. A deep and abiding sadness washed over me and I blinked back hot tears. No way would I give this monster the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

“I should’ve—”

He laughed, interrupting me. “Shoulda, woulda, coulda. It’s all water under the bridge now. Cheer up, kid. It’s time to play ‘What’s My Secret?’ Here’s how we play. It’s very simple really. I’ve got a secret and you guess what it is.”

I stared at him, despising every breath he took. “You’re insane.”

A hand shot out and smacked me hard across the face. I felt a blinding pain as shock mingled with rage and tears welled up in my eyes. My cheek began to throb and swell. He cocked his head slightly, waiting for me to catch my breath.

“Ready to play?”

He was serious. He wanted me to reconstruct the crimes. For every right answer I earned another five minutes of breathing time. Every wrong answer earned me another smack in the mouth.

“So,” Gruber started, settling comfortably on the couch, “you’ve already earned five minutes for figuring out the mayor and I had a special arrangement. I’d finance his campaign and in return he’d award me city contracts. But unfortunately things took a downhill turn when Curtis Maitlin showed up with his private party pictures. Your turn.” He smiled expectantly.

My head was reeling from the news about Nick, and I had to fight to comprehend what Gruber was telling me. Self preservation kicked in and I opened my mouth and hoped for the best. “When the first murder took place six months ago,” I began slowly, “the mayor hired a cop to pull the evidence on Maitlin. But then six months later he killed again, so you hired Thurman Williams to get rid of John, because he could potentially identify Maitlin. Then somehow you were able to get your hands on Maitlin’s original blackmail photos, which eliminated the need to protect Maitlin anymore, so you had him killed too.”

“Correctamundo! Tell her what she’s won, Vanna.”

I wasn’t about to make the mistake again of pointing out he was crazy, so I just continued to pick my way carefully through the events of the last week and a half, trying to put it all together. It wasn’t easy. My head was throbbing and my heart was breaking.

“Ms. Alexander,” cooed Gruber in a singsong voice, “the clock’s a tickin’.” He waggled the index finger of his free hand in a tick tock fashion to illustrate his point.

I ventured another guess. “Maybe the cop was killed because he knew too much, and since you didn’t need him anymore it was safer to just get rid of him.”