No Such Thing as a Free Lunch (No Such Thing As...: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) by Shelly Fredman Page B
Authors: Shelly Fredman
Tags: female sleuth, cozy mystery, Romantic Mystery, Janet Evanovich, Philadelphia, Brandy Alexander, Shelly Fredman, Funny mystery series, Plum Series, Comic mystery series
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proverbial light.
I woke up, face down in the gutter about three blocks from where I’d been abducted. It was two a.m. by my watch. My pocketbook lay on the curb next to me, my arms and legs freed from the bonds that had constrained them. The Clear Knuckles were gone, but beyond that, everything was as it had been. It was as if it had all been a horrible nightmare, conjured up after eating bad oysters or watching The Fox News Network.
Had I dreamed it?
I ripped open my bag and fumbled around for my cell phone. When I found it I began to punch in 911 but stopped midway through the call.
What would I even tell the police? And would they even believe me? I could hardly believe it myself.
Nothing was stolen, I wasn’t dead, there were no telltale marks on my body. I hadn’t seen a thing and I couldn’t identify any of those guys if they came up and bit me in the butt. I had nothing to offer the cops and no matter how I sliced it, I’d end up sounding like some nutcase rambling on about UFO’s and alien abductions.
The effects of the alcohol and chloroform had, for the most part, worn off, leaving me depressed and vulnerable. I hated feeling so defenseless. I put my phone back in my pocket, willing myself not to cry. It didn’t work. Big, fat tears spilled out of my eyes and rolled down my cheeks.
After a few minutes, I wiped my nose on my sleeve and tried to get some perspective on the situation. Okay, the good news was, no one was trying to kill me after all. They’d simply mixed me up with someone else. And when you think about it, they were really quite gentlemanly about the whole thing. Once they realized their mistake, they let me go. I was in the clear. No need to drag this on, what with my parents arriving in town and Paul’s big day coming up. To tell the truth, I was happy to put it all behind me. There was just one nagging, little detail. If I was the
wrong
girl, who then, was the right one? Crap. I took out my phone again.
I woke Bobby out of a sound sleep. He was there in less than twenty minutes, dressed in sweat pants and his motorcycle jacket, his hair tousled; the rough stubble of a five o’clock shadow running the length of his jaw line. He picked me up off the curb and opened the passenger door.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I said, shivering my brains out as hypothermia set in.
He turned up the heat and pointed the vents in my direction. “What happened?” he said quietly. So I told him.
“I can see where you might not want to mention this down at the station,” he said when I was finished.
“But you believe me.” It wasn’t a question.
“I believe you. So what were you doing making out with a nineteen-year-old kid?”
“Unhh! I think you’re missing the point here, DiCarlo.”
Bobby pulled up in front of my house and cut the engine. He turned around in his seat, facing me. “I’m not missing the point. I’m changing the subject. Jesus, Brandy, I am so damn relieved to know these people weren’t after you. Cut me a break here and let me enjoy it for a minute and a half.”
“Bobby,” I said, touched by his words, “I know you’re just looking out for me, but there’s some poor woman walking around out there who has “hit” men after her and she may not even know it. How are we going to find her before they do?”
“We?”
“Yeah.
What?”
“Didn’t you hear a word I just said? Look at you! You came this close to sleepin’ with the fishes tonight. You haven’t slept in weeks, your nerves are shot and now you’re talking about plunging into another life threatening situation. What is wrong with you?”
I pushed open the car door. “Do me a favor. When you figure it out, let me know.”
Chapter Four
L ynne Schaffer stopped me in the hall. It was Monday morning. I’d spent all of Sunday in bed, watching kick-ass movies like “Die Hard” and Walking Tall,” getting vicarious thrills out of watching the good guys beat the tar out of
I woke up, face down in the gutter about three blocks from where I’d been abducted. It was two a.m. by my watch. My pocketbook lay on the curb next to me, my arms and legs freed from the bonds that had constrained them. The Clear Knuckles were gone, but beyond that, everything was as it had been. It was as if it had all been a horrible nightmare, conjured up after eating bad oysters or watching The Fox News Network.
Had I dreamed it?
I ripped open my bag and fumbled around for my cell phone. When I found it I began to punch in 911 but stopped midway through the call.
What would I even tell the police? And would they even believe me? I could hardly believe it myself.
Nothing was stolen, I wasn’t dead, there were no telltale marks on my body. I hadn’t seen a thing and I couldn’t identify any of those guys if they came up and bit me in the butt. I had nothing to offer the cops and no matter how I sliced it, I’d end up sounding like some nutcase rambling on about UFO’s and alien abductions.
The effects of the alcohol and chloroform had, for the most part, worn off, leaving me depressed and vulnerable. I hated feeling so defenseless. I put my phone back in my pocket, willing myself not to cry. It didn’t work. Big, fat tears spilled out of my eyes and rolled down my cheeks.
After a few minutes, I wiped my nose on my sleeve and tried to get some perspective on the situation. Okay, the good news was, no one was trying to kill me after all. They’d simply mixed me up with someone else. And when you think about it, they were really quite gentlemanly about the whole thing. Once they realized their mistake, they let me go. I was in the clear. No need to drag this on, what with my parents arriving in town and Paul’s big day coming up. To tell the truth, I was happy to put it all behind me. There was just one nagging, little detail. If I was the
wrong
girl, who then, was the right one? Crap. I took out my phone again.
I woke Bobby out of a sound sleep. He was there in less than twenty minutes, dressed in sweat pants and his motorcycle jacket, his hair tousled; the rough stubble of a five o’clock shadow running the length of his jaw line. He picked me up off the curb and opened the passenger door.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I said, shivering my brains out as hypothermia set in.
He turned up the heat and pointed the vents in my direction. “What happened?” he said quietly. So I told him.
“I can see where you might not want to mention this down at the station,” he said when I was finished.
“But you believe me.” It wasn’t a question.
“I believe you. So what were you doing making out with a nineteen-year-old kid?”
“Unhh! I think you’re missing the point here, DiCarlo.”
Bobby pulled up in front of my house and cut the engine. He turned around in his seat, facing me. “I’m not missing the point. I’m changing the subject. Jesus, Brandy, I am so damn relieved to know these people weren’t after you. Cut me a break here and let me enjoy it for a minute and a half.”
“Bobby,” I said, touched by his words, “I know you’re just looking out for me, but there’s some poor woman walking around out there who has “hit” men after her and she may not even know it. How are we going to find her before they do?”
“We?”
“Yeah.
What?”
“Didn’t you hear a word I just said? Look at you! You came this close to sleepin’ with the fishes tonight. You haven’t slept in weeks, your nerves are shot and now you’re talking about plunging into another life threatening situation. What is wrong with you?”
I pushed open the car door. “Do me a favor. When you figure it out, let me know.”
Chapter Four
L ynne Schaffer stopped me in the hall. It was Monday morning. I’d spent all of Sunday in bed, watching kick-ass movies like “Die Hard” and Walking Tall,” getting vicarious thrills out of watching the good guys beat the tar out of
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