No Such Thing as a Free Lunch (No Such Thing As...: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) Read Free

Tamra.”
    Jeff loomed over Tamra, ignoring my outstretched hand. “You’re lying to me, Tamra. You’ve been lying for months.”
    Tamra stood up, pushing her chair back with surprising force. She threw her napkin on the table, the words spewing from her mouth like acid rain.
    “I will not stand here and have this conversation with you. I’m leaving.”
    She grabbed her coat and made a furious exit, stranding me with her husband. Jeff reached into his coat pocket and for a brief, hopeful moment I thought he was going to pull out his credit card and say, “Sorry for the interruption, Brandy, lunch is on me.” He didn’t.
    The waiter came by with the bill. Oh my God, it was over a hundred dollars. That woman sure could pack it away. I wondered what the chances were of making it out the door before Jeff did—you know—last one out is a rotten egg and has to pay the check. While I was pondering this, he left.
    I didn’t get back to work for another hour and a half. That’s how long it took for Paul to get to the restaurant and pay the bill. I passed the time by helping the staff set up the tables for the dinner crowd.
    I didn’t see Tamra again until late afternoon. She walked into the bathroom when I was headed out. She looked upset, her eyes wet and smeared with mascara.
    “Are you all right?”
    “Yeah, sure, fine,” she said. She went into one of the stalls and closed the door.
    I felt bad leaving her when she was obviously upset, but I didn’t want to intrude, so I walked out of the bathroom, only to return a minute later to retrieve my coat from the lounge. Tamra was still inside the stall and she was crying.
    “Can we please talk about this later?” I heard her say. There was a pause, then, “Richard, I’m at work for God’s sake.”
Richard? Who the hell is Richard?
    I heard the door unlatch so I grabbed my coat and tiptoed out of the lounge.
    By the time we finished shooting promos for the station it was after seven p.m. and pitch dark outside. I ran to my car, looking over my shoulder every step of the way, convincing myself it was just a necessary precaution in this day and age, rather than the paranoid antics of a woman in dire need of therapy.
    I drive a nineteen seventy-two metallic blue classic Mercedes sports car. Technically, it’s on loan from my brother, but I remind him that possession is nine tenths of the law. The funny thing is Paul would hand over the pink slip in a second if I really wanted him to. He’s the sweetest guy ever.
    I reached the car and fumbled for my keys, cursing the enormous satchel I cart around with me. (I figure you never know when you’re going to need a band-aid or a screwdriver or a can of creamed corn.) As I rooted through my bag, a shadow passed in the dim light of the parking lot and I froze. Beads of sweat popped out on my forehead as I willed myself to stay calm. The shadow moved closer and, instinctively, I spun around, swinging my pocketbook for all its worth. It met with something hard, and a hand reached out to grab me.
    “Help,” I screamed, panic overtaking me.
    “Jesus, Brandy, what’d you do that for?”
    I looked up to see a six foot one inch Irish-Italian God in a leather motorcycle jacket and jeans holding the side of his head, where I’d clipped him with the creamed corn. Oh great. I’d just decked Robert Anthony DiCarlo, Philadelphia homicide detective and former love of my life. My panic receded, replaced by a wave of pleasure in the pit of my stomach and a touch of remorse over his injury. I decided to go on the offense.
    “What’s the big idea sneaking up on me like that, Bobby?”
    “Ya think you might’ve overreacted just a little?” he asked, rubbing his temple.
    “A girl can’t be too careful. Hey, what are you doing here? I thought you were in Disney World.”
    About a month ago, Bobby’s wife, Marie, went off the deep end and was deported back to her homeland of Guatemala, leaving him with full custody of their