Authors: Jean Lorrah
“Do you want the steaks in the freezer or the refrigerator, Dear?"
If they were for herself, one would go in the freezer, and one in the refrigerator. “And you wonder where I get my talent as a detective, Mom?” Brandy took the meat from her mother's hands and defiantly put it in the meat keeper.
Melody Mather wasn't fazed. She put the potatoes and carrots into the vegetable bin, then turned to the last two sacks, handing Brandy one containing cleanser, toilet paper, shower soap, and laundry detergent. “You know where these things go."
By the time Brandy had put those in her utility closet, the last sack had been emptied, and everything put away except two items. The tampons and condoms sat side by side on the kitchen counter. Melody Mather's patented interrogation method.
All through Brandy's childhood, whenever her mother found something she thought her daughter shouldn't have, such as the $73.00 Brandy had laboriously saved up in a shoebox one and two dollars at a time, or the copy of Playgirl magazine she had once hidden under her mattress, she laid the item out in some conspicuous place and never said a word, just hovered and watched Brandy's reaction. Eventually Brandy was compelled to talk.
It wasn't even all bad. The money was for a bike she wanted. Once her mother accepted that Brandy hadn't stolen the money, and wasn't involved in drugs or anything else illegal, they had actually had a productive talk in which her mother explained why she didn't want Brandy riding a bicycle on Cleveland's dangerous streets.
The Playgirl incident, however, had been embarrassing and acrimonious. She had been fifteen and full of civics-class notions of freedom of speech and the press, as well as the right to privacy. Unable to answer her arguments, her mother had fallen back on the right of a parent to decide what her child could read, and finally on the old accusations that her daughter was so irresponsible that she had let her own brother get killed.
That was the first time Brandy had come out at the end of an argument believing her mother wrong, herself right, and her punishment unfair. She had never totally respected her mother since.
But there had been many more arguments, often precipitated by this same technique of evidence displayed until Brandy could take it no longer.
No
, thought Brandy,
I will not be embarrassed, and I will not discuss these personal items with you, Mom. Let your technique backfire for once
. So she said, “Thanks for helping me put things away, Mom. Come on—let's get your groceries home before they get too hot in the trunk."
The doorbell rang. Who could that be at 4:30pm?
It was Dan Martin. “Are you all right?” he asked, his eyes going immediately to the bandage on Brandy's forehead.
“I'm fine. Just a little cut, all in a day's work."
He still looked concerned. “May I come in?"
“Sure,” said Brandy, opening the door wider, smiling at his hesitation. Most West Kentucky men would have barged right in. Martin took off his hat and sunglasses as he entered, laying them on the table by the door, beside Brandy's purse, badge, and gun.
When he saw her mother, Martin paused. “I'm sorry. I didn't know you had company. I called the station. I don't have your home number."
Brandy could see her mother adding up Martin's concern, Brandy's clean apartment, the two steaks and two potatoes—
“This is Dr. Danton Martin, from JPSU. He's helping me with a case. Dan, meet my mother, Melody Mather."
“I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs. Mather,” he said formally, showing his Yankee origins again. No man born in Murphy could have resisted the opportunity to flatter both women by saying something like, “I see where Brandy gets her good looks.” Dan Martin said, “I'm sure Brandy's told you about the mysterious death of one of our professors."
“Brenda never tells me about her work."
“You say you don't want to know,” Brandy pointed out.
“I'd really like to know about cases in which no one is shooting at you, Dear."
“I don't think Brandy is free to reveal the details until the case is solved,” said Martin.
“Oh, wait,” said Brandy's mother. “Is this the case where a Satanic curse was put on one of the teachers, and he shriveled up and died?"
“Oh, Lord,” said Brandy. “Where did you hear that?"
“At choir practice. I hope it wasn't supposed to be a secret, Honey, because everyone's talking about it. A lot of the faculty and students come to our church, you know,” she added to Martin.
Our church now
, Brandy noticed.
You hypocrite. You never set foot in church till you started going out with Harry Davis.
“I'm sure they do,” Martin replied neutrally. “Brandy, I am sorry to interrupt your time with your mother. If you still feel up to going out, shall I pick you up at six?"
“Yes, that will—"
“Hiss! Yeeoowwwwrrrgh!"
Sylvester stood on the kitchen counter, back arched, fur on end, yowling at Dan Martin.
“He doesn't like men,” Brandy explained. “He was tortured by some low-life and left to die. I wouldn't let the vet put him to sleep."
“It's all right, Fella,” Martin said to Sylvester. “You know I'm not the one who hurt you, don't you?"
Brandy was about to tell him that Sylvester wouldn't even make up to Church, when the cat calmed, backed up a couple of steps, and sat down. He lifted a paw and licked it contemplatively, never taking his eyes off Martin.
Martin's voice was hypnotic. “That's good. I won't hurt you. Good boy."
To Brandy's utter amazement, Sylvester stood and walked cautiously toward Martin, who put out a hand. Again the cat skittishly backed off, but when Martin made no further motion he came up and sniffed the hand, then rubbed his face against it, marking Martin as his property.
“Well I'll be damned,” said Melody Mather. “I never thought I'd see that animal get on with a man. Brenda, hang on to this one if you insist on keeping that beast."
Martin ignored the unanswerable comment. “I grew up on a farm,” he explained. “I like animals, and I think they can tell.” He scratched the cat under the chin, and Sylvester began to purr. Then he turned to Brandy. “I'll see you later. Nice to meet you, Ma'am,” he added politely to her mother, actually tipping the hat that he put back on at the front door, and was gone.
Brandy turned to look at her cat in puzzlement. Sylvester was in his Egyptian cat pose, sitting tall with his tail looped over his feet. Immediately behind him, she realized, stood the items her mother had left on display.
Brandy drove her mother home, helped to carry her things in, and was shooed out. A date with a university professor her mother approved of—she was constantly after Brandy to find someone with a secure future, marry, have children, and stop risking her life.
But Brandy loved police work, and cops had a worse record for successful relationships than movie stars. Brandy's own failure rate was 100%—every serious relationship since she had joined the Murphy Police had ended within months. Inevitably, some event would demonstrate the danger of her profession, and the man would give her an ultimatum.
Brandy did not respond well to threats.
But Dan Martin did not threaten. When he arrived promptly at 6:00pm, she had potatoes baking and wine chilling. He handed her the evening paper from the doorstep, and said, “I thought I was taking you out."
“I'd like to get to know you better,” Brandy explained. “And you might as well get to know something about me. I'm not a gourmet cook. All I know about wine is that red goes with beef. If that's good enough for you, we'll get along."
“That's fine. May I help?"
“Everything's under control,” Brandy replied. “How do you like your steak?"
“Very rare."
Brandy blinked. “I thought you grew up in Iowa and Nebraska. Farmers generally like it well done."
“We didn't have steak when I was a kid. We had meatloaf or pork chops. When I was introduced to prime cuts I was also introduced to the proper way to prepare them."
She noted the shift to passive voice, and assumed that it was a woman who had introduced him.
“Yes,” said Martin.
“Yes what?"
“Yes, it was a woman. Brandy, can't you stop playing Sherlock Holmes for a few hours?"
“You, Sir, are the one who just pulled the Holmes trick of following my train of thought and replying to the end of it.” Then she added thoughtfully, “I don't know how to turn my curiosity off, Dan. It's not just police training. I've always thought that way."
“You're a dangerous woman to become involved with."
“Are we involved?” she asked bluntly.
He came around the counter, into the kitchen proper. He smelled clean, fresh from the shower, and his hair was still slightly damp. His presence filled her small kitchen. “I've made it no secret that I find you attractive."
“Yeah, well, I haven't had much success hiding my feelings, either,” said Brandy. “Are you sure you want to risk getting involved with a cop?"
“I wasn't planning to commit any crimes,” he replied, and reached to take her in his arms.
It took every ounce of Brandy's willpower to shrug him off and retreat to the corner by the microwave. He let her go, leaning back against the counter. “What's wrong?"
“You've seen it already,” she told him. “I can't plan on my free time being free. Two or three cancellations without notice are enough for most men."
“The same would be true if you were a doctor, Brandy. Or a social worker or a firefighter. Uncertainty comes with the territory. I should think anyone would understand."
“Not all,” she replied, “but yes, there have been men in my life who could accept it. Until something like today happens—or worse."
Brandy had replaced the white hospital bandage with a flesh-colored one, but it was still obvious. Had she left the wound uncovered it would have looked worse still, red and puffy, the stitches black and ugly—completely normal, she knew from a dozen previous experiences, but shocking to someone unaccustomed to women in the line of fire.
And what if she had been hit by a bullet instead of flying glass? The one and only time she had been shot, it had ended another promising relationship. Her mother had threatened everything short of having her declared insane when she had refused to quit the force.
Martin studied her with unreadable black eyes. Finally he asked, “What do you want me to say, Brandy? That it doesn't bother me that you were in danger today? How can I care about you and not be concerned? You may become very important to me—I don't know you well enough yet to be sure. But I want to know you better."
“I want to know you better, too."
Again there was a long pause. Brandy wondered why she had put him in this position. Did she want to drive him away before she even had a chance to know him?
Martin asked, “Are you afraid I'll try to change you?"
“Men always do."
“If I like you as you are, why would I want you to change? Besides, people never actually change. They may play a role for a time, but they can't keep it up. What kind of life would you have if you had to spend it being something you're not?"
“You have a knack for saying exactly what I want to hear,” said Brandy.
“It happens to be the truth. But I don't know yet what you are, as you don't know what I am. Shall we give ourselves time to find out?"
Brandy let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. “Yes,” she replied.
Brandy's apartment was small. She served dinner in the living room, and afterward Martin insisted on helping her clear the dishes away. Then they sat on the couch and talked—she could never remember talking so much with a man she was romantically interested in.
Sylvester came in and walked over both of them, meowing until Brandy got up to feed him. Martin picked up the newspaper. As Brandy was filling Sylvester's dish, he said, “There's a story about the robbery today, and the chase."
“How accurate is it?” Brandy asked skeptically.
“You'll have to judge. I wasn't there.” Reading further, he asked, “You shot one of the suspects?"
“Mm-hmm. I've been lucky. I've never had to kill anyone."
He closed the paper and looked up at her with a puzzled frown. “Are you saying you intended to hit his hand? I thought you were trained to aim at the largest target."
“I had a rifle and a steady prop, and Anderson wasn't more than twenty yards away."
“Brandy—"
She grinned. “You really don't know that about me, do you?"
“Know what?"
Brandy went to the bookcase for two framed items. One was a gold medal on a red-white-and-blue ribbon. The other was a front-page newspaper article with the headline, MURPHY WOMAN GOES FOR THE GOLD.
Martin read the article, then looked up at her, astonishment on his face. “I've never met anyone who even participated in the Olympics before."
“It was when I was in college,” she explained. “The JPSU rifle team wins the nationals most years. That year I was the best on the team."
“The best in the world,” he said in awe. “What was it like?"
“It's so long ago now,” she said honestly. “It was strange, frightening, triumphant—and it all went by in such a blur it was over before I knew it."
Martin stood, and carefully replaced the items on the bookcase. “This can't be the only medal you've won."
“Mom has the others,” Brandy told him. “There's not room h—” She stopped. “I don't want to sound like I'm bragging. It's just a tiny apartment.” And she waited for him to digest the fact that she was the local Annie Oakley, and make the appropriate—or inappropriate—remark.
But instead of some smartass crack about how no man would ever dare to offend her, he said, “How wonderful it must be to know that you're the best at something—anything. The very best."
“Well,” said Brandy, “when it's a sport there's always someone waiting to take the title."
“You lost it to someone else four years later?"
“Four years later I wasn't eligible, because I was a cop, a pro, by then. I've been in police competitions since the Olympics, which is fine. What's not so fine is having the nuts come after you, as if you were one of the gunslingers in the Old West. I'm not a quick-draw artist. I'm a crack shot with a rifle, that's all."