No Such Thing as a Secret: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As...A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (7 page)

“Uh huh. Until the caffeine kicks in and you go into hyper overdrive. Brandy, you really ought to think about a more nutritionally balanced life style.”

“Have you been watching ‘Discovery Health’ again? Those Diet Nazis don’t know what they’re talking about, trying to ruin everything that’s good in the world.” I drummed on the console for emphasis.

“Damn, It’s starting already. I knew I should have ordered you a decaf.”

“I’m fine.” I opened the window and hung my head out, enjoying the crisp, October air. A black SUV passed us on the right, and I gave the driver a hearty salute. He didn’t wave back. Not a morning person, I guess. I stuck my head back in the car and cranked up the volume on the Green Day song that was playing on the radio.

“Now,” John said, adjusting the music to a tolerable roar, “are you ready to talk about what happened between you and Bobby last night, or do I have to wait until you’ve thoroughly discussed it with Fran and Janine first?”

“Sorry,” I said, sheepishly.

“That is so totally sexist, you know.”

“It’s not,” I protested. Franny would kill me if I didn’t talk to her first. Besides, there’s nothing to tell.”

John gave me a sideways glance. “Uh huh.”

“Really, John. We exchanged pleasantries. It was very anti climatic. I don’t know what I was so afraid of all this time.”

“So, you didn’t feel anything for him then.”

“No.”

He studied me for a beat. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You’re lying.”

“Fuck you. I’m not lying. Will ya keep your eyes on the road? You’re going to get us killed.”

“Fine,” he said, dragging his eyes back to the hiway. “I’ll wait until you’ve had your little girlfriend chat with Franny, but then I want details.”

I sighed. “Deal.”

Traffic was beginning to pick up. We passed a couple of tour buses filled with senior citizens on their way to the casinos. Their little gray heads peaked over the tops of their seats like fluffy clouds. “That’s so sweet,” I said, pointing to a group sitting at the back of the bus.

“Don’t let those old people fool you,” John said. “They look all innocent and vulnerable, but just try to horn in on their ‘lucky slot machine’ and they’ll kill ya. They’re like rabid dogs when it comes to their nickel slots.”

The black SUV appeared again in my side mirror, but stage one of the caffeine high—warm and fuzzy, had begun to wear off, and I was entering phase two—impatient and grumpy. This time I didn’t wave. I put my feet up on the dashboard and John tossed me a death ray. I took them down again and began pawing through his CD collection.

“Are we there, yet?” I asked, holding up some Coltrane for inspection.

“Jesus, Brandy, will you quit touching everything? You’re like a little kid.”

“I’m endearing.”

“Is that what they call ‘incredibly annoying’ in L.A.? I thought that being in the public eye would mellow you out a little. You know, get rid of some the rough edges.”

“They think I’m refreshing. Hey, we’re here! I can smell the ocean.”

It was eight forty five a.m. when we pulled up to the marina. Joel was already there, waiting.

“Okay, out you go,” I said, anxious to scoot into the driver’s seat.

“Swear you won’t drink coffee while you’re driving. This is real Corinthean Leather.”

I didn’t bother to tell him that there’s no such thing as Corinthean Leather, that it’s just a marketing ploy. I just swore on a stack of invisible bibles that I wouldn’t spill anything on it, or drive over thirty-five mph and he handed me the keys.

“Come back at eleven. We should be done by then and we’ll go to brunch.”

John watched me as I carefully backed the car out of the parking space. Then I watched him in the rear view mirror as I burned rubber out of the lot. “Only kidding!” I yelled back at him. No need to give the guy a heart attack.

I cruised down Brigantine Boulevard until I reached Trump Marina. “The perfect place to amass my fortune,” I thought, settling on a quarter slot machine.

Ten minutes later I was out of money, so I headed for the boardwalk. Even in mid October, the boardwalk draws a crowd. I watched as a toddler wobbled along, chasing a flock of pigeons. Her arms spread wide, she did this little stomping thing with her feet. Then she dove into the flock, headfirst, laughing and screaming. Her mother grabbed her and tried to get her back in her stroller. The little girl struggled valiantly, but the mother won that battle. I vowed that if I ever had a kid I’d let her chase pigeons until she dropped.

I stopped at a souvenir stand and bought an aquamarine baseball cap for a dollar that said “Atlantic City” on the brim. I tried it on. It looked pretty good so I got one for my friend, Michele, in L.A. and one for John, too, only his was the deluxe version. It came with a little plastic propeller on the top with the words, “Keep Kool” embossed on the front. John would never wear it, of course, but I figured it would make him laugh.

After that, I got back in the car and headed back towards the Marina. Traffic was backed up for about half a block. I stuck my head out the window to try to see what was tying things up.

As I inched my way closer a police car roared past me. “Must have been an accident,” I thought. “Wow, must have been a
big
accident.” Police cars littered the parking lot. A roadblock stretched across the entrance, and a dozen cops milled around, securing the area. Oddly, there was no sign of damaged vehicles.

I sat there in the all-consuming traffic, staring out toward the ocean, my eyes drawn to a strange light in the water.
Holy shit.
My stomach lurched at the sight before me. A few miles out, a boat, or what was left of it was completely engulfed in flames. Several rescue boats had encircled it, but their efforts were in vain.

My hands began to shake, and I could barely keep control of the wheel. I pulled to the curb, parked in a red zone and turned off the engine. “Johnny will be so pissed if his car gets towed,” I thought idly before bursting into tears. For in that moment I knew without a doubt whose boat had just been blown to bits. I flung open the car door and threw up.

Officer Luke Taylor wrapped a steadying arm around me, as I sobbed into his handkerchief. He was about sixty years old, with steel gray hair and a chin like Tom Selleck. Handsome and dignified, but I bet he could really kick ass if the occasion called for it. He waited patiently while my tears subsided and then he nodded to the rookie cop who stood beside him.

“Ma’am,” coaxed the younger officer, “you say there were two men on the boat?”

“Yes,” I whispered, not trusting my voice. “John Marchiano and Joel Mishkin. The boat belonged—
belongs
to John. How could this happen? How?” I began to cry again, in earnest.

“I wish we had the answers for you,” Tom Selleck said. “We won’t know anything until there’s an investigation. My guess is a faulty fuel tank”. He shifted me to his other arm. “Is there anyone I can call for you?” he asked, kindly.

I had been answering questions for the past half hour. What was my relation to the people on the boat? Where do they live? Do they have any next of kin? I had questions of my own.
Why are you standing here like a yutz asking me questions, when you should be out there, rescuing my friend?
I slumped against the car in a fit of exhaustion. “I need to call my brother.”

“Paul’s voice, fuzzy and distant warmed me through my cell phone. I knew I’d woken him up, but he greeted me with his familiar comforting words.

“Yo, Brandy, what’s up, kiddo?”

Battling a new round of hysteria, I filled my lungs with air and forced the words out of my mouth. “There’s been an accident.” I could hear Paul suck in his breath as he fought to remain calm.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“Wh-what about J-John?”

“I don’t know about John,” I wailed, totally losing it. “Nobody will give me any answers. I dropped John off at the Marina, and he and his friend went out on the boat. When I went back to pick him up, the boat was on fire. It exploded and, and—”

Officer Taylor took the phone from my ear and spoke quietly into the phone. “Your sister needs you. How soon can you be here?”

Officer Taylor stayed with me until Paul arrived. He had sent “the baby” as I came to think of the young cop, out for coffee and doughnuts, and we sat in the parking lot munching on Krispy Kremes. He kept my back to the ocean so that I couldn’t see the police activity, and he kept me talking. About Los Angeles, what it was like living in a “world of glamour,” a million questions I’m sure he had absolutely no interest in knowing the answers to. But he was determined to keep my mind occupied while we waited for the Calvary to arrive.

When we had exhausted the subject of Hollywood Lives, he brought out pictures of his sons, twin boys. They were handsome, like their father, around thirty years old. One was a cop, like him. The other one was an investment broker. The cop had a girlfriend, but the broker was up for grabs and “quite a catch” in case I had any girlfriends who might be interested. I thought about Janine and gave Officer Taylor her phone number to pass along to his unattached son.

A shadow passed over us and I looked up. Paul stood in front of me, and next to him was Bobby. He looked worn out and sexy as hell, and I immediately felt guilty for noticing that when John could be—no, I refused to go there. I got up and immediately felt the tears well up in my throat again. Paul took me in his arms and held me tight. Bobby stuck out his hand and introduced himself to Officer Taylor. They walked off to the side as Paul held me.

“Why is Bobby here?” I sniffed.

“I c-called to t-t-ell him what happened and he offered to drive J-John’s car back. I thought maybe he could get m-m-more information out of the cops.” He took a deep, painful breath. “Y’ know, pro-professional courtesy.” I nodded, squeezing his hand.

Bobby and Officer Taylor walked back over to where Paul and I were standing.

“Brandy, I’m sorry I can’t give you any more to go on right now. Like I told your friend here, there just isn’t anything to tell yet. The search and rescue team are still out there…” He left the rest unspoken, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know how a less sensitive man would have finished the sentence.

“Thank you for staying with me, Officer Taylor.”

“Luke,” he smiled. “Now you be sure to tell that girlfriend of yours to expect a call from my son.”

I nodded, barely able to keep myself together. “Listen, as soon as you hear anything…”

He looked at Bobby and then back to me. “I’ll be in touch.”

I drove home with my brother while Bobby took the Beemer. Paul pulled up in front of our parents’ house and parked. “You get some sleep, kiddo. I’ll call Franny and the rest of the guys.”

“What are you going to tell them?”

Paul looked pained. “That John is— that he’s, y’know—”

“We don’t know that for sure, Paul. They haven’t found a body. They’re still looking,” I screamed. I knew I was scaring him, but I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t going to accept anything as fact until the search was complete.

Paul unbuckled his seat belt and opened the car door.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m coming in. I can’t leave you here like this.”

“I’m fine,” I barked and immediately regretted it. “I’m sorry, Paul. I’m just tired.”

He studied me for a moment, realizing my need to retreat into myself. Even as a little girl, when things went wrong I’d go into denial mode, secluding myself until the storm passed.

“Promise you’ll go lie down?”

“I promise.”

“Call me later.”

“I will.”

I tried to fall asleep, but as I closed my eyes, the sight of the burning boat kept pressing its way into the forefront of my brain. Soon, the tears started again and I cried until there was nothing left but dry, heaving sobs. The phone rang and I ran for it, praying it was Officer Taylor with news of a miracle about Johnny. The machine picked up before I could locate the handset. Franny’s voice, solemn and strained echoed in my ear.

“Brandy, you’re probably sleeping—maybe not. It’s okay. You don’t have to talk now. But call me later.” There was a slight hesitation before she added, “I love you, Bran. Call me.” Franny’s not the most demonstrative person in the world; in fact, terms of endearment really embarrass her. She would sooner call someone she loves a four letter word than to admit that she has tender feelings for them. Her message really touched me. I’d call her back when I knew I could talk without breaking into tears every five seconds.

I wandered into the living room and turned on the radio. As long as I was up, I decided to make myself something to eat. It was almost six and I hadn’t eaten anything all day besides a cup of coffee and a Krispy Kreme doughnut. Johnny was right. I needed some balance in my diet.
Johnny.

I made my way into the kitchen and began poking into cabinets. I found a stale package of TastyKakes chocolate cupcakes and a can of tomato soup. I opened the cupcakes and rummaged through the refrigerator for milk.
No milk.

Feeling more sorry for myself than I ever have in my life, I opened the soup and poured the contents into a pot. The congealed paste really cried out for milk, but since I didn’t have any, I heated up the paste and ate it right out of the pot, not bothering to transfer it into a bowl. I was getting off on how pathetic it all was, when there was a knock at the front door.

I got up and walked through the dining room, glancing at myself in the beveled mirror that hung over the china cabinet. I barely recognized the image that stared back at me. Outside of work I’ve never been a fashion maven, but this was going too far, even for me. Two red- rimmed slits surrounded by puffy skin passed for eyes. My hair hung in strands, a huge tomato paste glob of soup stained the front of my Bart Simpson sweatshirt, while my knee poked through a hole in my jeans. I looked exactly the way I felt, and I felt like shit. “Love Hurts” blared through the radio speakers.
No duh
. I approached the door.

“Who is it?” I asked, as the knocking continued.