No Such Thing as a Lost Cause (8 page)

“It’s not just that, Fran. It’s everything. Instead of moving forward in my career,
I’m stuck doing traffic reports dressed as a St. Bernard. And now John is so wrapped
up in Garrett, he doesn’t have time for me anymore. Plus, his boyfriend hates me—for
no good reason at all.”

“And don’t forget the whole ‘Bobby dating someone else’ thing, and you feeling jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“Right.”

“I’m not.”

“If you say so.”

“Shut uh-up. I’m very happy for him…really.” I slumped forward and took a large bite
of water ice.
Oh great, brain freeze. Well, that’s just fabulous.

“Brandy,” Fran said, not without sympathy, “all these things are a drag, but you’ve
been through worse. There’s something else going on here, so why don’t you just spill
it?”

“I don’t know,” I confessed. “I’ve just been so down lately.” I rubbed my hands over
my face and winced. The bruising on my cheek had mostly subsided, but it still hurt
to the touch. “I can’t believe I walked right into that flag pole.”

Fran leaned in close to me, her nose practically grazing my forehead. “Wait a minute,”
she said, thinking. “You told me you got hit with an air hockey puck at the arcade…oh
my God, Bran. Did Nick do this to you?
He did,
didn’t
he? The bastard!”

“No! Franny, have you completely lost your mind? As if I’d ever put up with that shit!
Besides, Nick would never hit me. And anyway, I haven’t seen him in weeks.” The words
caught in my throat, and I stopped this short of bawling my eyes out.

“Oh,” she said, as if I’d just unlocked the secrets of the universe.

“I haven’t seen him in weeks,” I repeated. And then I completely lost it. Pent up
tears rolled down my cheeks and splash-landed in the Italian Ice.

“Franny, I thought that when he told me he loved me—”

“Birds would sing, flowers would bloom, and you’d walk off into the eternal sunshine
of your fantasy-driven life?”

“Pretty much,” I admitted miserably. “But if you tell anyone, I
will
have to kill you—and I’m not without practice.”

“My lips are sealed.”

I reached into my jeans and fished out an old Kleenex, and blew my nose. “Okay,” I
began. “I know Nick isn’t purposely avoiding me or anything. I mean if it’s anyone’s
fault it’s mine. He tried to talk to me after my—uh, ‘scare,’ but I just wasn’t ready.
And then he took off on business and—jeez, Fran, I don’t even know where he goes…or
what he does…or who he’s with. I mean, I love the guy—but who the hell is he? I have
no friggin’ idea.”

“And maybe you’re just a little afraid to find out.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” In truth it was more like if he had time to think about it, maybe he’d
change his mind about me. But I just couldn’t admit that. Not even to Fran.

We hung out the rest of the afternoon watching Dora the Explorer and pretending we’d
put it on for the baby. I just love that Dora. She’s a little spitfire!

The sun had already set by the time I left Fran’s. She walked me to the door, hesitating
as I stepped outside.

“I know it won’t do any good to ask you to stop your investigation,” she said, “so
just be careful, okay?”

“I will. Thanks. And, uh, thanks for talking to me today. I really don’t know how
to repay you. Say! Would you like a puppy?”

*****

Two nights later I was headed home, having just wrapped up the latest humiliating
effort to hang onto my job, doing a promo as the ever-popular Godfrey. (“
This rush hour traffic report is brought to you by Doggie Donuts. So good, you may
be tempted to dunk them in your morning coffee—but save them for your canine pals!”
) The costume weighed about twenty-pounds. It’s a bitch to take off, so I didn’t bother
to change back into my street clothes. Plus, it was kind of fun to see the looks on
people’s faces when I pulled up next to them at red lights.

I turned onto my street and immediately tensed as a slew of police cars came into
view; their rotating lights making my head ache. They had converged on a house at
the other end of the block. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was my house.

Oh, crap! The dog’s owner must’ve changed his mind about wanting his dog back, and
now they’re here to arrest me…is dognapping a federal offense? I could go to jail…
I can’t go to jail! I’m claustrophobic…I hate sharing a bathroom…Prison jumpsuits
only come in orange… What do I do? What do I do? I’ll keep driving. I’ll just cruise
on down past my house, real nonchalant, check it all out…

As I got closer, I panicked and tried to cut a u-ie in the middle of the road, only
my street is so narrow I grazed my neighbor’s bumper and set off his car alarm. As
Mr. Yong came out of the house to see who was trying to make off with his Ford Fiesta,
a uniformed cop stuck his head in through my car window. Fortunately, it was Mike
Mahoe, a friend of mine.

“Brandy?”

I reached up and removed the top of the costume, revealing my sweaty, prison-bound
head. “I don’t want to go to jail, Mike. I can explain about the dog.” I started to
blurt out the whole story, but Mike drowned me out.

“Brandy. It’s not about some dog. It’s—ah, hell, just try not to freak.” He stepped
away from the car and I squinted into the growing darkness and freaked.

I scrambled out of the car and thrust Godfrey’s head at Mike’s chest. “Hold this,”

I yelled and bounded toward my house. A crowd had formed, and I battled my way through.
Mahoe trotted along behind and yelled for me to wait up.

Shards of broken glass lay strewn on my front porch, carnage created by a spray of
bullets that splintered the front door and shattered every window facing the street.
I reached the yellow tape that marked off the crime scene and ducked under it. A hand
shot out, grabbed me by the collar and yanked me back.

“Let go, Mike. Rocky and the dogs are in the house. I have to get in there.”

“You can’t. They haven’t finished checking out the premises yet.”

“But they could be hurt—”

“All right, give me a minute, and I’ll talk to the officer in charge.” He handed back
Godfrey’s head. “Stay put,” he ordered.

“Yeah, I’ll do just that.” Hysteria made my voice hoarse. I turned and stormed back
toward my car.

“You know, I’m not the enemy here,” he shouted after me.

I waited for about a nano-second, and then I marched back to the police barricade
and ducked under the tape. A rookie cop stood guard at what was left of my front door.

“Hey, get back.”

“I need to get inside.” I shoved past him which, in retrospect, probably wasn’t the
best move. He grabbed my furry arm and pinned it behind my back.

“Ow! Look,” I shouted and tried twisting out of his grasp, which only made him hang
on tighter. “This is my house, and my cat and dogs are in there, and they need me.
So I’m going in, and not you or anybody else is gonna stop me. Now let go!”

“Just calm down, Ma’am.”

“I’m not gonna calm down. Look, you little pisher—”

Mike came up next to us. He didn’t seem surprised to see me there.

“Skip,” he interrupted. “This is Brandy Alexander. She’s the one who saved Wolinski.
Cut her a break, okay? She’s had a rough couple of days. I’ll escort her in.”

“She’s all yours,” Skip muttered and let go of my arm. He stepped aside, and Mike
and I entered the house.

The forensics team was just leaving. There was glass everywhere but, the house looked
pretty much as I’d left it. Well…except for the bullets that decimated a lamp and
left gaping holes in my brand new sofa.

I galloped up the stairs two at a time and found the dogs and Rocky huddled together
in Paul’s old bedroom closet. I shut the door, went downstairs, and returned with
some leftover lasagna for them to share. Any good psychologist will tell you that
you can’t solve your problems with food, but they’re wrong. I ate a TsstyKake and
felt tons better.

“Mike, I know this looks bad. But, maybe it was just some guy who was excited about
the new assault rifle he got for his birthday, and he just happened to pick my house
to practice on.”

“I don’t think so.”

“But—”

“Brandy, someone actually took the time to get out of their car and spray-paint ‘Bitch-ho’
on your front step. This was personal.”

“Y’know, my neighbor, Mrs. Gentile isn’t the easiest person to get along with. Maybe
it was meant for her.” Okay. That’s unlikely. Mrs. Gentile is in her eighties. She
may be a bitch, but I seriously doubt anyone would mistake her for a ‘ho.

I walked back outside and found her holding court with the neighbors. She had a clipboard
which she circulated among the crowd. Mrs. Gentile’s been trying to get preferential
parking for our block, which I think is downright unfriendly. But I felt like I owed
her one because of recent events. I strode over to her.

“Uh, Mrs. Gentile, I’d be happy to sign your petition.”

Grace Romano, my mother’s oldest and dearest friend from the neighborhood, cut me
a guilty look. She handed the clipboard back to Mrs. Gentile and slunk off toward
her house. I craned my neck to read the upside down words (a skill I cultivated from
years of cheating in high school math class). All I could make out was my name before
Mrs. Gentile snatched it way, pressing it to her scrawny chest.

“You’re a menace,” she squawked, wagging a bony finger at me. “This neighborhood is
for decent people. We want you out of here.”

“What?”

She turned the clipboard around so I could read it. A dozen or so of my neighbors
had signed the petition. Some of them, twice.

Mike waited while I spoke to a Detective Cabot, who suggested that someone might have
a vendetta against me.

“Gee, ya think?”

Mike elbowed me in the ribs.

“Sorry. I’m a little stressed.”

I thought for a minute and then rattled off a rather lengthy list of people I might
have annoyed to the point of using weapons of mass destruction against me. Then I
collected the dogs and cat, packed a bag, and called my friend Taco, whose dad owns
a lumber yard. Taco arranged to have someone come by and board up the windows and
door. The thing that bothered me the most was what they’d written on my front step.
I mean, that was really uncalled for.

“Brandy, I hate to leave you here like this,” Mike said, “but I’ve got to get back
to the precinct.” He took a few steps and stopped, the corners of his mouth forming
a grim smile. “Are you gonna be okay?”

“Peachy.”

“Do you want me to call DiCarlo?”

My brain flashed back to Bobby and the blonde at the gym and shook my head. “I’m fine,
Mike. Really. Thank you for all your help tonight.”

Mike gave my shoulder an awkward pat and climbed into his patrol car. The neighbors
had moved back into their own homes, satisfied that the Brandy Show was done for the
night. I sat down on the front step and considered my options.

I could go to John’s, but I didn’t want to risk running into Garrett. Uncle Frankie
was still at the gym, and Fran and Janine were having dinner at their mother’s. Paulie?
He’d only get upset and blow things all out of proportion. After all, nobody died,
and the house is still standing. In the scheme of things, this was no big deal.

The rain that had threatened for days began to fall in hard, fat drops. It ran in
rivulets down my face and saturated the fake fur from the Godfrey costume. It clung
to my body, emitting an odor akin to raw sewage.

I reached up and swept my sopping wet bangs off my forehead. Too late, I remembered
the temporary color Carla had put in my hair to give me a “saucy little lift.” She’d
promised it would wash right out with water, and it did, leaving splotches of brown
dye on my cheeks and hands. Icing on the cake.

The puppy nudged up against my leg, settling in next to me, and nuzzled me with her
warm, wet nose. She trusted me to take care of her, and I was failing her miserably.
I’d never felt more frightened or alone in my life.

I slumped against the back of the step and closed my eyes. And in the next moment,
the voice of a slightly fallen angel caressed my soul.

“Hello, Darlin’.”

My eyes flew open and Nick stood in front of me. He wore a dirt-encrusted, sandy-colored
tee shirt and desert-camo pants. His wavy, dark hair was tucked behind his ears, and
the rough beginnings of a beard graced his normally clean shaven chin. Dried mud was
caked to the sides of his boots, and he had a deep gash over his right eye that said
his time away hadn’t been all fun and games.

“Oh!” I yelped and leaped to my feet knocking Godfrey’s dismembered head clear into
the gutter. Nick stretched out an arm to steady me. Even in the limited light from
the moon I could tell that his sinewy biceps were a sun-soaked brown.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, Angel.” His eyes were tired but he cut me a smile that
was so damn sexy I could’ve done it with him right there on the lawn, in front of
God and Mrs. Gentile. As if on cue, he cupped my face in his hands like I was the
most precious thing on the planet and kissed me.

I swooned. How corny is that? But that kiss was the first good thing to happen to
me in weeks, and I was determined to enjoy it.

A minute later, Adrian started barking and snapped me back to reality. I took a deep
breath striving to appear confident and in control, which was difficult enough dressed
as a St. Bernard with hair dye running down my face. Only now, the puppy had gotten
up and was walking in concentric circles around me, her leash expertly trapping my
legs. I pitched forward and Nick tightened his grasp on my arm, and pulled me back
toward him.

“Who’s your new friend?”

“Long story,” I said, tugging on a stray tuft of fake dog fur. “I, um, actually had
a different outfit planned for your homecoming, but then I decided to go with this.”

“Ah, furry porn chic, an interesting choice,” he joked, but his eyes were trained
on the wreckage that used to be my front door. “I’d heard you had some unexpected
company tonight,” Nick continued. He kept his voice calm, but I felt an almost imperceptible
shift in his energy as he assessed the damage.