No Such Thing as a Free Lunch (No Such Thing As...: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) by Shelly Fredman Page B

have been suicide after all.”
    “What kind of new developments? Eric, are you telling me the police think she was murdered?” It was about friggin’ time.
    “Why are you acting so surprised? Rumor has it you’ve been going around town screaming “murder” to anyone who’ll listen to you. So what have you got?” he asked.
    “Not much,” I admitted. “At least nothing concrete. Eric, was Tamra working on a story about that guy on death row who’s scheduled to be executed next month.?”
    “You mean Harmon? If she was, it wasn’t for me.”
    Hmm…
“What do you know about her husband?”
    “I met him once at the Christmas party last year. Seemed like a nice guy. I’d heard rumors that they weren’t getting along. What did you find out when you broke into their house?”
    Jesus, does everybody know about that?
“I was just returning her house key!”
    “Yeah, sure. Listen, come in early and we’ll talk about this. You’ve been itching to get a real story. This may be the one.”
    “Really? Eric, you’re not just jerkin’ me around, are you? I mean, why me?”
    “Alexander, it’s no secret you’re overqualified for the job you were hired for. And I know your heart’s not in it. But you take even the most crappy-assed assignment and turn it into a piece that’s worth watching. I want to see what you can do with something you actually care about.”
    “Thank you,” I said, all misty-eyed.
    “By the way,” he added, not missing a beat, “will you go out with me?”
    “Fuck off, Eric.”
    “Fair enough.”

Chapter Six
     
    A t six a.m. I was startled out of a fitful sleep by a pounding on the front door. I had dozed off on the couch at around 2:00a.m. in the middle of reading another one of Jeff’s mind-numbing biology reports. I shoved Rocky off my lap and scrambled over to the door. Adrian growled and pawed at the rug. “Shh.” Cautiously, I stood on tip-toe and peered out the spy hole. A man with sandy colored hair and glasses peered back at me.
Holy cow, it’s Jeff!
He looked mad.
    My heart leaped into my throat as I slowly began backing away from the door. Rhineholt stopped banging and leaned on the bell. The piercing ringtone was extra loud, to accommodate my nearly deaf grandmother, who owned the place years ago, before my parents moved in. I’d have to get that fixed—if I lived that long. Jeff looked
really
mad.
    It didn’t appear that he was going to go away any time soon and the ringing doorbell was bound to start pissing off my neighbors, so I braced myself and called out, “May I help you?” Jeff stopped ringing and slumped against the door frame. I would have felt sorry for him had I not thought he was here to kill me.
    “I need to talk to you,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. I couldn’t tell if it was overwhelming anger or sadness until he started to cry.
Crap
. I opened the door.
    “I’m not sure that you should be here,” I said, through the storm door.
    “That’s funny,” he replied. “I’m absolutely certain you shouldn’t have broken into my house last night, and yet there you were.”
How many times did I have to explain this? I had a key!
    “Look, my life has been hell the last few days, and last night it got worse. Do you know the police were at my door until all hours? They got a court order to stop the cremation. Because of you they won’t even let me bury my wife. I just want to talk to you for a few minutes. I won’t stay long,” he added, starting to cry again.
    “Hang on a second,” I said. I ran back into the living room to grab my cell phone and pepper spray out of my bag, and then I opened the storm door and stepped aside.
    “Thank you,” Jeff said softly.
    “I really don’t know what you want from me,” I said, following him into the living room. He sat down on the couch.
    “I want to know why you think I murdered my wife. Haven’t I been through enough already without you spreading your insane ideas about me all