No Such Thing as a Secret: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As...A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (5 page)

The phone interrupted my concert, for the third time tonight. The first call had been from Franny, breaking the news about Bobby.

“It’s fine,” I’d reassured her. “Johnny told me…don’t worry about it. I’m
so over him…
no, I don’t want to be fixed up with Eddie’s cousin, but thanks for asking.”

Call number two was from Paul.

“I forgot to tell you, the keys to Dad’s Le Sabre are in the kitchen drawer, next to the sink.”

“I don’t want to drive the Le Sabre.”

“Why not?”

“It’s maroon.”

“It’s burgundy. What’s wrong with burgundy?”

“Burgundy isn’t metallic blue.”

“But my Mercedes sports car is. I see where this is going.”

“Come on, Paul. I’m only in town for two weeks. You’ve got two other cars. You don’t even drive the Mercedes.”

“That’s right, I don’t!” he said, pointedly. “That car is a classic.”

“Oh, fine. I’ll drive the old lady car.”

Paul sighed. “I’ll drop off the Mercedes, tomorrow. Bu-but if anything ha-happens to that car—”

“It won’t, I promise.” Did I mention that I love my brother?

My third interruption came in the form of John. I lowered the volume on the ancient tape deck.

“What are you listening to?”

“Led Zeppelin,” I lied.

“You are not. I’ll bet it’s ‘Journey’.”

“Okay, it’s ‘Journey.’ What of it?”

“What a trendy little eighties girl you were.”

“Oh, you should talk. I seem to recall a certain someone’s fascination with Don Johnson from Miami Vice. You died your hair blond and made your mom go out and buy you those tight, pastel-colored t-shirts and a linen sport jacket. No wonder you kept getting beat up at school.”

“I was so friggin’ fashionable,” John said, remembering. “They were all jealous.”

“They were,” I agreed. “So, what are ya, checking up on me?”

“Maybe.”

“John, it’s not like I have a terminal disease or anything. I’m just feeling a little nostalgic, that’s all.”

“In that case, I’ll let you get back to your reminiscing. Just promise me you won’t break out the “Kiss” records.”

“I promise.”

“Hey, while I’m thinking about it, do you want to take a ride with me to Atlantic City, on Saturday? I’m meeting Joel Mishkin at nine a.m. He’s been bugging me forever to take him out on my boat.”

“That sounds great! I could drop you off at the Marina, and then I’ll cruise the casinos while you guys do your little nautical thing.”

By the time I hung up with John it was after eleven p.m. I was tempted to take the phone off the hook, but since everyone I’d ever known from the Greater Philadelphia area had already called, I figured it wouldn’t ring again. Just then, the phone rang.

“Hello?” I detected a slight hesitation, and then a woman’s voice.

“Is Bobby there?”

“Bobby who?”
Click. What the hell was that all about?
I hit “Star 69” and waited for the “mystery woman” to pick up the phone. After fifteen rings it became clear that she wasn’t going to.

“Well, that’s interesting,” I said aloud, because I was starting to get a creepy feeling, and it helped to pretend someone was there with me. “What do you think of that?”

“I really couldn’t say.” After a good talking to, I convinced myself that it was a wrong number, nothing more.

God, I was tired. I turned off Journey, checked the locks on the doors, and threw on a pair of sweats and an old Temple U t-shirt I’d found in the closet. Then I flicked on the bathroom light, turned off the overhead, crawled into bed and immediately fell into a dreamless sleep.

“J
erry or Kramer?”

“I don’t want to play.”

“Come on,” Franny coaxed.

“Okay,” I sighed, “Jerry.”

“Kramer or George?” That, from Janine.

“Ooh, tough one—George.” I picked up my glass of single malt and took a healthy swig. Janine knocked back her third Rolling Rock and slammed the bottle on the table, signaling for another.

“Ross or Chandler?” she said.

“Joey.”

“Not an option.”

“Oh, like the other ones are?”

“Okay, okay. Ooh, I’ve got one. Gilligan or The Skipper?”

“Doesn’t my reality suck, enough? Either give me a decent fantasy choice or I quit.”

We were sitting in one of the back booths at Paul’s club, playing “Who would you rather
do it
with?” We had to disqualify Johnny Depp, because everybody wanted to do it with him, and it was making the other contestants feel bad. At least, we thought they’d feel bad if they knew, which we believed was an actual possibility. We were really drunk.

I drained my glass and sat back, debating whether to order another. Paul ambled over and slid into the booth, next to me. He eyed my empty glass and chuckled softly.

“Having fun?”

“Yep!”

The place was packed. Paul’s club is a throwback to another era; red leather booths, blue velvet walls, a small stage overlooking a rectangular dance floor and a killer sound system. The club plays an eclectic mix of music, which attracts a varied clientele. There’s everything from Salsa, to Big Band, to Heavy Metal and Alternative. But Friday nights are reserved for Classic Rock and Motown.

Years ago, Paul had his own garage cover band. They played all the oldies as well as classic artists like Otis Redding, Al Green, and Aretha. I used to sing backup, occasionally taking the lead when a female voice was needed. He reminded me of this now.

“Y’know, sis, the old band is here.”

“
Get out!
Kenny? Chris? Taco?” We didn’t know from politically correct back then. We just knew the guy ate
a lot
of tacos. “Hey, where are they?”

“Out in the parking lot unloading their equipment. Eddie and Fran wanted some live music. By the way,” Paul added, looking around, “What’d ya do with Eddie?”

“He’s in the back room with John, playing pool. He took off as soon as we started drinking.”

“Smart man. So anyway, Bran, we’re going to need some female accompaniment here, and it looks like you’re it.”

“Whoa. I haven’t sung in front of a crowd in years. If you think you’re gonna get me up on that stage, you’re nuts,” I said, with as much dignity as one can muster through a single malt haze.

“What’s a matter, you chicken?” Low blow, Paul. He knows I can’t stand to turn down a challenge, even a stupid one.

“Grow up, big bro. I’m not getting up there and making an ass of myself. No friggin’ way.” I looked to Franny and Janine for support, but they busied themselves, guzzling a new round of drinks. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear they were in on it.

“Fine,” Paul said, too easily. “Mindy Rebowitz is here. I’ll ask her.”

Talk about your low blows! Mindy Rebowitz was my nemesis all through high school. She was the one who ratted me out when I went “undercover” in the Boys’ locker room to check out an allegation that they had saunas and a wet bar in there. She was the one who stole my history test and drew little penises on it and then slipped it back on the teacher’s desk when he wasn’t looking. I was suspended for a week. And Mindy was the bitch who’d started the rumor that I’d had a sex change operation! The only reason people believed her was I had allergies, which made my voice unusually deep for a girl. I hated Mindy Rebowitz with a passion and didn’t Paul just know it!

“When do we go on?” I sighed. Paul flashed a triumphant grin.

“Thirty minutes.”

It was ten p.m. and the club was jammed to capacity. I cast my eyes over the crowd silently wishing everyone would realize it was way past their bedtime and go home.

“Are you sure Bobby isn’t coming? I mean I really, really need to know before I get up there on stage.”

“Look,” Franny shouted over the noise, “I’m only telling you what Eddie told me. He said that Bobby called him about an hour ago and said he was still at work, and it didn’t look like he was going to be able to make it to the party, after all.”

Relief and disappointment battled it out in my colon. “Actually, I was kind of looking forward to meeting the little woman.”
Did I say that out loud? I sounded like my Grandpop Max.

“The ‘little woman!’ Hah! That’s a good one.” Franny cackled hysterically and tossed back a tequila shooter. I quickly followed suit, squirting lime juice all over my arm. “Well,” Fran continued, “
I
like to call her Miss Congeniality. She’s just a peach of a gal!” That got me laughing so hard I nearly toppled off the barstool.

We had given up our comfy booth to the “paying customers” and were now seated precariously at the bar. “Y’know,” Franny whispered conspiratorially into my ear, “I don’t like to talk trash about anyone,” which set us off on a new round of guffaws. “You know me. If I can’t say anything nice…”

I nodded my head, solemnly. “You are the soul of discretion.”

“But I gotta tell ya, that bitch hasn’t said word one to any of us the entire time she’s been married to Bobby. I think the only reason they eloped was so she wouldn’t have to invite us to the wedding. Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked suddenly, thrusting her upturned face into mine. With her make-up pooling around the base of her eyes, she looked like a besotted raccoon.

“You’re gorgeous. Hey, you’re not going to try and kiss me or anything, are you?”

“Eddie says he loves me because I’m
so pretty.
”

Please, God, don’t let me be as drunk as Franny.

The band was onstage, warming up; Kenny on drums, Chris, on guitar, Taco on keyboard and Paul on his old, beat up saxophone. I tried to climb down off the stool, but my legs couldn’t find their way to the floor.

“Okay! I can do this,” I said, giving myself a much-needed pep talk. “It’ll be fun.” I pushed myself off the stool and bumped smack into Mindy Rebowitz. I had hoped she’d gotten really fat over the years, but she looked the same as always, only now I was seeing two of her. Her bouncy, bottle- blond hair framed a perfect heart shaped face.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Brandy Alexander. I haven’t seen you since high school graduation. How are things out in La La Land?” That was the trouble with Mindy. She said things like La La Land. She really made me want to puke.

“Couldn’t be better.” I casually draped my arm over the bar for support. “So, how have you been?”

“Great,” she gushed. “Did you know that Terrence and I have just had our second?” Their second
what?
I must have looked puzzled, because she clarified right away. “Our second
baby.
Another girl. Terrence says she’s the image of her mommy.” Oh goody, Spawn of She-Devil.

“Congratulations. You must be very happy.” All of a sudden I had to pee, really badly. I straightened myself up and prepared to walk away. “Well, Mindy, it was terrific seeing you—”

“So, have you seen Bobby since you’ve been back?”
Shit.

“No, I haven’t. Listen, Paul’s waiting for me. I really have to go.”

“Of course,” she said, with a smug little smile. I wanted to slap it right off her face. “I imagine it’s still hard for you.”

“You can imagine anything you want, Mindy,” I said, through a smile of my own. “Personally, I don’t have time to reflect on other people’s lives. I’m too busy living one of my own.”

She stared at me, open mouthed, as I spun around cross-legged and hobbled off to the Ladies’ Room. Half way across the club I could hear Franny snickering.

“Bran-dee! Bran-dee!” The crowd was chanting my name as I exited the bathroom. While I was in there I tried to gussy up a little. The only time I ever wear make-up is when I’m on-air. But after my run-in with Mindy, I decided it wouldn’t kill me to look a little more presentable. I ran into Janine coming out of one of the stalls.

“Hey, lemme have some mascara, ‘k?”

“Sure. You feeling okay?”

“Swell. How ‘bout some lip gloss?”

Janine searched her pocketbook. “Nope, no lip gloss. But how about this?” She held up a tube of blood red lipstick to the light.

“Perfect.” I began to apply it to my mouth, making big red loops that extended far beyond my lip lines.

“Here, let me do that. You look like Lucy Ricardo.” Janine grabbed the lipstick out of my hand. “Now,” she said, appraising her handiwork, “What are we going to do with your outfit?”

I looked down at my jeans and sweater. They seemed fine to me. “What’s wrong with my outfit?”

“Nothing, if you’re going camping with the girl scouts. But you’re a rock and roll princess, now. You’ve got to look the part.” She reached into her huge black bag and extracted a tube top that wouldn’t fit a Barbie doll. “Here, put this on.”

“Janine! I couldn’t squeeze my
neck
through this thing, let alone the rest of me!”

She gave me a withered look. “Brandy, you have been wearing jeans and a t-shirt since you were seven. It’s time to branch out. Now get in there and change, and then we’ll figure out what to do with your hair.”

Ten minutes later I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Florescent lighting not withstanding, I looked good! Janine had somehow managed to tease my poker straight hair into some kind of “do”. My bangs flopped lazily across my forehead, emphasizing my eyes. She had gone a little overboard with the eyeliner, which gave me a weird, sort of Vampira look, and the tube top clung to my chest like a second skin. All in all the effect was rather sexy. I smiled coquettishly in the mirror.
Damn, I’m hot
.

I strolled confidently out the door, unaware that a long strand of toilet paper had attached itself to the heel of my shoe. Some people are born to nerdiness, while others have it thrust upon them. In my case, it’s a little of both.

“What you want, Baby I’ve got it. What you need, do you know I got it,

All I’m askin’ is for a little respect.”

The band was on fire! We’d torn through all the old standards and thought we’d end the set with Aretha. The audience, made up mostly of neighbors and long time friends, responded with wildly enthusiastic hoots and hollers, calling out our names, begging for encore after encore. That last shot of tequila I’d consumed just before climbing on stage was a real confidence booster. Taco hugged me hello and whispered something dirty in my ear—something to do with the tube top and if he wasn’t married. I laughed, feeling truly relaxed and happy for the first time since I’d been home. From somewhere out in the audience a male voice called out, “Strut your stuff, Baby.” I strained to see who it was. Jimmy Donopolis gave me the “thumbs up,” and I blew him a kiss in return. “Lookin’ good, Brandy,” he shouted.