No Such Thing as a Secret: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As...A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (4 page)

I walked the eight blocks to his store. As I entered, the most wonderful aroma besieged me; garlic, fresh bread, Romano cheese. Sam was behind the counter, sneaking a cigar. He cast a furtive glance around when he heard the chimes go off in the door, signaling a customer. Then his eyes settled on me, and he did a double take as recognition set in.

“Brandy! How ya doin’, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine, Sam. How are you?”

“Can’t complain, doll. Who’d listen?” He snorted congenially and I laughed along with him. We’d been having the same conversation since I was a little girl.

“So, your mother tells me you’re a big television star out in Los Angeles.”

My mother exaggerates. “Pretty big.”

“Do you know Mannix?”

“Uh, no. Unfortunately, he’s dead.”

Sam shrugged. Disappointment loomed in the air.

“But I know Regis Philbin.” (Actually, I don’t technically know him. I sat next to him in a restaurant once.)

Sam brightened considerably, my t.v. star status remaining intact. “So, how long are you in town for?”

“Two weeks.”

“Oh yeah, I heard you were coming in for the DiAngelo kid’s wedding.”

In Philly, we’re all “kids.” You could be fifty years old, with grandchildren, but if you’re younger than the person who’s talking about you, you’re a “kid.”

“How’s Mrs. Giancola?” Sam is Sam. His wife, Dolores, is Mrs. Giancola.

“She’s fine. Went back to school after Gracie graduated high school. She’s getting her degree in dental hygiene.”

“That’s wonderful,” I said, but my mind was really on the deli case.

Sam stubbed out his cigar and rubbed his hands together. “So, the usual?” Four years and he still remembered.

While Sam worked his magic inside the store, I scooted around back to say hello to his son, Vincent. Vince and I were an “item” when we were eight. That is, until he tried to French kiss me and I bit him. Somehow, we’d managed to overcome our romantic past and remain friends.

I found him in back of his parents’ house, his legs sticking out from under a nineteen sixty-three Alpha Romeo. A Z-28 was parked next to it, in various stages of dismemberment. I grew up in a neighborhood of gear-heads. If the guys weren’t working on cars, they were talking about them, or racing them, or occasionally, stealing them, as in the case of Ronnie Torino, an otherwise upstanding citizen of our block.

“Yo, Vincent,” I called, lapsing into the vernacular. “What does a girl need to do to get a hug around here?”

Vince scooted out from under the car and blinked into the sunlight. “Hey! I heard you were back in town.” The omnipotent neighborhood grapevine strikes again. He wrapped his grease-stained arms around me for a warm hug.

“Sorry,” he said, wiping a smudge off my cheek. Then, he stood back and eyed me appreciatively. “Wow!” He wolf-whistled. “You look great.”

“Thanks,” I blushed. As a kid I carried around a fair amount of extra poundage. It was sort of a badge of honor with me. At family dinners, my grandmother would comment on Paul’s finicky eating habits. “Now Brandy, she’s the
good eater
. She’ll eat anything you put in front of her. Won’t you, dear?” Then I’d beam like an idiot and stuff half a pot roast down my throat, just to ensure a place in Grandma’s “Good Eater Hall of Fame.” Fat Aunt Doris was a “good eater” too. In fact, she was such a good eater she died of heart failure at forty-six.

I left Philly with “baby fat” still clinging to my post-pubescent hips. But four years in body-conscious L.A., three of them in the public eye, gave me the impetus I needed to shed the extra pounds. I am by no means skinny, but I no longer resemble a Cabbage Patch Kid on steroids, either.

“Still working for the D.A.’s office, Vin?” Vince is an assistant district attorney.

“Yeah, and it’s been nuts, lately.”

“How come?”

“Ah, some gay guy got whacked about a week and a half ago. There aren’t any leads, and the asshole cop who was supposed to be in charge of the investigation decided to take a vacation the day after this guy turns up D.O.A.”

My heart lurched. “Bobby?”

“You got it.” Vince grinned. “He’s back now, and he’s catching a rash of shit for his little impromptu disappearing act.” Vince and Bobby are long-time friends, but there’s always been a rivalry between them. Physically, Vince takes after his dad, husky build, wide, flat nose, and a receding chin that disappears into his neck, while Bobby is nothing short of gorgeous. He’s got the best of his Irish- Italian ancestry: smoky blue eyes, dark wavy hair, and the lean, muscular body of a boxer. As a teenager it was hard for Vince to watch girls fall at Bobby’s feet. So whenever Bobby screwed up, (which was often, in those days) Vince really made the most of it.

As much as I would have liked to hear more about Bobby, something else Vince had said caught my attention even more.

“You said there are no leads?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Oh, but”—I was thinking about Johnny’s pictures and the detective’s admonitions not to tell anyone. “Nothing. It must be frustrating, that’s all.”

I ate my sandwich on the walk home, my conversation with Vince turning over in my mind. Why would Vince say there weren’t any leads in this murder investigation? What about John’s photographs? And why would Bobby just take off like that? As a kid, he was rebellious, angry, even a little dangerous at times, but never irresponsible. What could have been so pressing that he’d up and leave at such a vital time?

It occurred to me that I was spending an inordinate amount of time thinking about an ex-boyfriend who had clearly moved on in his life. The man had a wife and baby, for God’s sake, while
I
had a goldfish. At least I
did
have a goldfish. Turns out that bits of raw hamburger meat are a real treat for dogs, but not so much for goldfish.

Just as I reached the front door and turned the key in the lock, the phone started ringing. Wiping the grease from my sandwich onto my jeans, I picked up the phone on the fourth ring.

“Hello?”

“Did you have a nice nap?” John inquired. At least I thought it was John. The connection was lousy.

“I couldn’t sleep, so I walked down to Sam’s for a hoagie.”

“Meat or cheese?” I hesitated a moment too long. “You had salami, didn’t you?” he accused. Recently, John has become a vegetarian and a pain in the ass along with it.

“Well, I didn’t enjoy it, so it doesn’t count.”

“Liar.”

“Hey, listen,” I said, changing the subject, “I had an interesting conversation with Vince Giancola today.”

“Why would you speak to him? Why?
Why
?”

“Okay. Not your favorite person.”

“He’s a Neanderthal! Or have you forgotten about the time he turned me upside down and shoved me in the trash-can!”

“We were ten. People change, and besides, he said he was sorry. Anyway, let me tell you what he said.”

John cut me off, abruptly. “Tell me later. I’m on my way downtown. I’ve gotta get Fran’s wedding gift and I wanted to know if you want to come along.” The connection began to crackle, furiously.

“I want to come!” I shouted.

“Damn crappy phone. Make that a wedding gift and a new cell phone.”

Franny and Eddie were registered at a half-dozen stores in Center City, and John was determined to schlep me to every blessed one of them.

“How will we know when we see the perfect gift if we have nothing to compare it with?”

“They’re
all
the perfect gift,” I reasoned, “or else she wouldn’t have put them on her bridal registry. We could have purchased any one of six thousand items by now, all hand picked by Franny.”

“Jeez, if I had wanted to go shopping with a guy I would’ve asked Paul to come along.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said, barely containing my urge to knock him into tomorrow.

Johnny rolled his eyes so far they almost fell out the back of his head. “I mean it’s very butch not to enjoy shopping. Get in touch with your feminine side, sunshine. You’ll be a much better woman for it.”

This time I didn’t even try to fight the urge. I whacked John a good one.

“Ow. I think you broke my arm.”

“I did not. Quit being such a baby.” I was heading on thirty-two hours without sleep and my patience was wearing thin.

“Okay,” John relented. “If I buy you a Starbucks will you go to one more store?”

“Coffee
and
those little chocolate grahams?”

John nodded. “Deal.”

We strolled through Rittenhouse Square, counting the number of people talking on their cell phones. One very loud woman wearing too-tight overalls was having a fight with her boyfriend. She kept shouting, “You asshole, you asshole. I should have thrown your sorry ass out a long time ago.” A silver haired society matron was making plans to meet her lawyer for lunch. Young and old, rich and poor co-mingled in the October sunshine. I drank it all in, happy to be back. The leaves had turned a magnificent array of autumn colors, yet the air was still warm.

“Indian Summer,” said John.

“In L.A. we call it Native American Summer.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“No, I swear. Some Chumash filed a law suit to have the phrase legally changed.”

“You are so shittin’ me.”

I laughed and John threw a companionable arm around me.

“I really miss hanging out with you.”

“Me, too.”

“So, now can I tell you about my conversation with Vince?”

“If you must.” We were seated at a window table in the Barnes & Noble café, where they “proudly serve Starbucks coffee.” I knew I’d regret having caffeine this late in the afternoon, but I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open.

“Okay,” I said, settling in. “So I ask Vince how’s work and he says things are nuts because of this murder case that’s going on.”

Konner Novack?” John asked, suddenly interested.

I nodded.

“Wow. So what else did he say about it?”

“Well, this is where it gets weird. He said that Bobby was supposed to be in charge of the investigation, but he all of a sudden leaves town, and Vince
also
says there aren’t any clues in the case. I’m paraphrasing, but that’s the gist of it.”

“No clues? I hand that cop eight by ten color glossies of the probable killer and they say there are no clues?”

“Weird, huh?” We sat there for a moment; John sipping his latte, me with a “red-eye” clenched firming in my hand.

“Maybe the pictures just didn’t pan out,” John concluded.

“In that case, you should ask for them back. Your friend Daniel will want them.”

“It’s no big deal,” John shrugged. “I’ve got copies.”

“But didn’t you tell the detective you didn’t have any copies?”

John looked at me like I’d grown another head. “Don’t you remember how long it took to get your bike back after it was stolen? It sat in the evidence room for three months. You think there’s any way I’d hand over all the copies? I put them on my I-Mac. The password is ‘brassiere,’” he added, giggling.

I would have told John to grow up, but that word makes me giggle too.

“So, what do you think’s up with Bobby?”

“Haven’t got a clue. But you could ask him. He’ll be at Paul’s club, tomorrow night, for the party.” This last part was said very quietly, I suspect to soften the impact of his words. I felt my stomach tighten at the mention of Bobby being there.

“Bobby’s coming?” I squeaked.
Of course he’d be there. Bobby has been a part of the gang for as long as he’s known me.

“Franny had to invite him. Bobby’s the one who introduced her to Eddie in the first place.”

“It’s okay,” I said, with a bravery I didn’t feel. “He’ll be at the wedding. I may as well get it over with. Actually, I’m looking forward to seeing him.”

John grinned. “You are so full of shit.”

I shrugged. “Flatterer.”

We settled on a pair of Waterford “toasting goblets,” which weren’t even on the registry lists. As soon as Johnny saw them he declared them “the perfect gift,” instantly negating three hours of hard shopping labor.

We listened to Motown all the way home, except for a brief interlude with Springsteen. We rolled the windows all the way down, and I hung my head out the window, shouting out the lyrics to Born in the USA and getting them mostly wrong.

John parked in front of my parents’ house and turned off the engine.

“I had fun today.”

“Me too. Just like old times.”

“So what are your plans for tonight?”

“Frankie and Carla invited me over, and Paul asked if I wanted to catch a movie, but to be honest, I think I just want to stay home. I need to.”

John nodded his head in understanding. That’s what I miss most about living in L.A. I’ve made some good friends out there, but no one who really
knows
me. It was a luxury to not have to explain myself all the time.

“Bran, be careful, okay? The past is a nice place to visit, but I don’t think you’d want to take up permanent residence there. Call me if you get lonely,” he added, leaning over for a hug.

“I will. Thanks.” I climbed out of the car and watched as John drove off.

As I opened the door, something caught my eye. A black SUV cruised down the street, picking up the pace as John rounded the corner. Impulsively, I jotted down the license plate number, although I wasn’t sure of its accuracy. I’ve had to wear glasses since I was twelve, but I never do. “Five billion black SUV’s in America,” I laughed to myself. “They can’t all be following Johnny.”

I sat cross-legged on my bedroom floor, elbow-deep in my memory box. Actually, it’s more of a memory closet. I’m a clutter freak. I can’t throw away a thing, as evidenced by the old movie stubs, the fourteen year old pack of cigarettes, the toothpick that Franny had salvaged from the cafeteria trash can, that had been sucked on by a boy I
loved
, but whose name I can’t remember.

“Journey” pumped through my old tape deck. I grabbed my hairbrush and began belting out the tunes. “Don’t stop belieeevin’ Hold on to the feelin.” I looked “hot” in my Calvin Klein panties and sports bra, sashaying all over the bedroom with my fake microphone. I leaned into my brush and got a mouthful of hair. Eewww.