No Such Thing as a Lost Cause

No Such Thing as a Secret

No Such Thing as a Good Blind Date

No Such Thing as a Free Lunch

No Such Thing as a Free Ride

No Such Thing As A

Lost Cause

A Brandy Alexander

Mystery

Shelly Fredman

© 2012 Shelly Fredman. All Rights Reserved

eBook editions by eBooks by Barb for
booknook.biz

I want to thank the following people, without whom I could not have written this book:

 My "twin," Kris Zuercher, for spending countless hours reading rewrite after rewrite,
and for helping me keep Brandy true to herself, my husband, Dudley Fetzer, for watching
me go a little (okay, a lot) nuts and loving and supporting me anyway, my daughter,
Corey Rose, for always knowing what a scene needs in order to make it better, Suzanne
Dunham, for providing technical information, and for helping me with plot points,
Audrey Matisa for offering up her wonderful talent to make the No Such Thing As…series
visible on the Internet.

Special thanks to:

An’gel Ducote Molpus, for sharing so many hilarious "Brandy moments" on Facebook,
Terri Dunn and Sassy Girls Book Club, for letting people know about my series, as
well as to Joanna Banks-Morgan and Jill Dearden, for starting Facebook fan pages,
and Anna Harp for maintaining our Yahoo group, Jerry Fest, for his help with the story
line, Nick Carlson, for his technical advice, Carrie Gwaltney and Beth Dalebroux for
being such strong Brandy supporters, and Marty Schatz, for our caffeine-induced brain
storming sessions.

Kudos to:

Michael Canales for his brilliant cover art.

And huge shout outs to:

Judith Kristen, my "sister from another mother," author of A DATE WITH A BEATLE, ONCE
UPON A TIME IN LIVERPOOL, MY NAME IS HENLEY, and THE MOOKIE SERIES, and to Pamela
DuMond, author of the delightful Annie Graceland CUPCAKE mystery series.

In loving memory of

Caleb "Deuce" Fetzer

For a reasonably intelligent, passably cute, street-savvy, adult female, I have had
my share of crappy luck in the romance department, but this just takes the cake. It
all started a few weeks ago, when my heart got in the way of rational thinking and,
well, I’m not sure, but I
may
have had unprotected sex. Okay, I did. I’m not making any excuses—but, really, you
had to be there.

I tried not to dwell on the possible repercussions of my impulsive behavior, (or,
as my friend Janine put it, “Brandy, how dumb can you be?”) and concentrate on the
happier aspects of my new relationship. But, two weeks and one missed period later,
denial was no longer an option. And, as of thirty seconds ago, keeping it to myself
didn’t appear to be an option either.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Darlin’?”

“Um, no?”

“I think you meant yes.” His tone was playful, but I knew he meant business.

Nicholas Santiago, beautiful, bad-ass mystery man, and my unofficial boyfriend of
less than a week, stood at my bedroom door, holding a small box I’d mistakenly left
on my bathroom counter. He turned it around so that I could see the words, written
in pink, swirly script, surrounded by dancing daisies. Early Response Pregnancy Test.

“Oh, that,” I laughed, acknowledging the box with a dismissive wave of my hand. “It’s
not what you think.”

Eyebrows arched, Nick walked over to the bed. He was naked, except for the white,
surgical bandage that cut across his otherwise perfect, caramel-colored chest. The
bandage protected the site of a gunshot wound, and the incision that followed, to
remove a bullet meant for me.

I reached out and took the box from him. “It’s Fran’s.” Franny DiAngelo is Janine’s
twin sister and the first name that popped into my head.

“Fran, who just had a baby two weeks ago?”

“Yeah, well, she’s not thinking clearly,” I told him. “Birthin’ a baby kills a lot
of brain cells. You can’t get them back, you know.”

Nick studied me for a beat, and then he leaned down and kissed me softly on the mouth.
My stomach got all skittery, and I made room for him to climb back into bed.

“It’s tempting, Angel,” he apologized, pulling on his jeans, “but I’m afraid I’ve
got to get going. I have a business meeting in an hour.”

“It’s three a.m. Are we talking suit and tie business or Kevlar vest and semi automatic?”

I don’t know why I bothered asking. Nick won’t discuss his work with me, which, however
morally correct, I’m guessing falls on the far left side of legal. I would have pressed,
but I had some business of my own to attend to.

Grabbing my tee shirt off the chair next to my bed, I yanked it over my head and followed
him downstairs. He stopped when he reached the door.

“So, I’ll see you later,” I said, unconsciously shifting my weight from one foot to
the other.

Nick took a step outside, and then in a flash he was back and pinning me up against
the wall.

“Forget something?” I squeaked.

“Just this.” He lifted my chin and kissed me, slow and sultry. I closed my eyes and
melted against him, forgetting for a moment that my world was on the verge of collapse.

“By the way,” he said, catching me off-guard, “if you say you don’t have anything
to discuss, I believe you because I know you’re always honest with me.”

“What? Are you kidding me? I lie all the time!”
Unhh.
“What I meant was—”

He cut me a wry smile. “We’ll talk later, Angel.”

I watched as Nick disappeared into the middle of the night. Then I went back upstairs,
and opened the box with the dancing daisies, peed on the stick, and waited two of
the longest minutes of my life.

When the time was up I said a Hail Mary and looked down at the stick. A little plus
sign appeared in the window. As my Bubie Heiki on my father’s side of our Jewish-Italian
family would say, “Oy vey.”

“Are you throwing up?”

“No.”

“Feeling dizzy?”

“No.”

“Crying for no reason?”

“No…well, I did shed a few tears during a Huggies commercial, but who wouldn’t? They’re
very moving.”

“Uh oh.”

“What?” I said, alarmed.

“Emotional response to baby-related items. This could mean something.” Franny thought
for a minute. “Do your boobs hurt?”

I felt around. “A little. Only I think it’s my bra. I should stop buying underwear
at Hal’s Discount Mart.”

I was talking to Fran from my cubicle at WINN, a local cable news station serving
the Greater Philadelphia area. I am the community liaison to the many varied and exciting
happenings around town. Want to know where to get the best frozen yogurt? I’m your
go-to girl. Need hula dancers for your next party? I’ll show you how to turn your
living room into a tropical paradise! People tune in just to see what life-changing
information I’ll be dispensing next. This station would be nowhere without me.

I glanced around the room to see if anyone was listening in. Art Metropolis looked
up from his desk and shot me a big, greasy smile. Art is WINN’s political commentator
and resident Nosy Nellie. I lowered my voice and continued.

“I’ve got a doctor’s appointment this afternoon.”

“Is Nick going with you?”

“No…um, I didn’t exactly tell him yet.”

Franny gave a very unladylike snort. “Oh, yeah. It’s way better to wait until the
baby’s born. Guys really like to be surprised that way.”

“Sarcasm isn’t helping, DiAngelo.”

The truth is I was scared. I’ve been in love with Nicholas Santiago since the day
I first laid eyes on him, and after months of relentless pursuing on my part, and
mega resistance on his, Nick finally admitted he loved me too. But, given the newness
of our relationship, not to mention his lifestyle, dangerous by anyone’s standards,
and his family history, the last thing we needed to worry about was an unplanned pregnancy.
I figured why bring it up until I was one-hundred percent sure.

A shadow crossed my desk and I looked up to see my boss, Eric, standing in front of
me. At twenty-six, Eric is three years younger than I am. Eric’s okay, except that
he’s something of a horn dog. He was leaning over trying to take a peek down my shirt,
a loose-necked tee. Under normal circumstances, I would have threatened to smack him
upside the head, but I needed a favor so I let it slide.

“Fran, I’ve gotta go.” I hung up and tugged at the collar of my shirt. At least he
had the decency to look sheepish.

“So, uh, when you’re finished with the story on those freaks—I mean the
concerned citizens
who wanna fix the crack in the Liberty Bell, I need to talk to you about something,”
he said.

“How about now? I need to talk to you too.”

I followed him down the hall to his office, a shrine to Philadelphia sports teams.

Eric sat down at his desk and began fiddling with a Charles Barkley Bobble Head. I
settled into the chair across from him and jumped right in.

“Eric, I’ve been giving this a lot of thought, and I think it’s time I moved onto
hard news. I mean, how valuable is puff piece reporting anyway? When you think about
it, it’s really kind of a waste of air time. I want to sink my teeth into important
issues, stuff that makes people think. And over the last several months, I believe
I’ve proven I can take on hard hitting stories. I want—”

“We may have to let you go.”

“What?”

Eric tugged on the Charles Barkley doll, absently twisting it around until the head
snapped off. He looked at it, surprised, and laid it on his desk.

“I’m going to give it to you straight, Brandy. The station has been experiencing some
economic downturn lately, and we’re looking to cut back.”

“But—but—Eric, you can’t fire me! I bring a much-needed sense of whimsy, not to mention
invaluable household tips into the dreary lives of our television-watching public.
Our ratings went through the roof after my “behind the scenes” look at Clown College.
And you should see the fan mail I got the day I worked the breakfast shift at Hooters!”
(Okay, so it was one e-mail from an eighty-two year-old shut-in who asked me to be
his new Meals on Wheels delivery gal, but
still
…)

“Brandy, I’m not arguing with you. Your report on waxing versus electronic hair removal
was one of the biggest stories of the decade. Clearly, you’re a front-runner for a
Pulitzer.”

“Fine, Eric, you’ve made your point, which is exactly why I wanted to talk to you
in the first place. You know I can do more for the station. I’m working on an idea
for a story right now. And they wouldn’t have to pay me any extra—at least not right
away. Eric, I need this job.”

Eric picked up Charles Barkley’s head and began tossing it back and forth in his hands,
thinking. “Well, there is a paid position that just came available.”

“Ooh, what is it? Do they need me to investigate that scandal at the docks? Oh, I
know, there’s been talk about corruption at the City Planners’ Office. I could get
on it right away.”

“Uh, actually, I was thinking more along the lines of man’s best friend.”

“Oh no,” I protested. “Not Godfrey the Traffic Dog. How am I ever going to be regarded
as a serious reporter if I keep doing this kind of junk? Besides, it’s a hundred and
five degrees in that suit. Plus it makes me look fat.”

“Now look, before you turn your nose up at this, just hear me out. If you take this
on along with your current position, it’s job stability. Godfrey is very popular with
our audience, but after what happened with Kevin, they were thinking of retiring the
character. You could restore Godfrey’s good name.”

I had my doubts. About two weeks ago, Kevin Sanders, the guy who played the safety-tip
dispensing canine was driving home from work when he stopped off at a local bar for
a nightcap, It wasn’t the smartest move, seeing as he’d just come off a stint in rehab.
Anyway, after downing his third rum and coke and being egged on by his drinking buddies,
Kevin decided it would be
hilarious
to slip into his Godfrey costume and relieve himself next to a fire hydrant.
It was!
Only a passerby videotaped the whole thing and posted it on YouTube. The next thing
he knew, he was paw cuffed and charged with indecent exposure.

I sighed. “Has the suit at least been cleaned?”

Eric grinned. “That’s the spirit, Alexander. In the mean time,” he added, “it wouldn’t
hurt to polish up your resume, just in case.”

Twenty minutes later, (including a stop at Starbucks for a stress-relieving triple
espresso on ice) I was on my way to Dr. Claybourne’s office for my appointment. I
drove with the windows down in my parents’ old Le Sabre, a car I inherited when they
moved to Boca. The air conditioner had sacrificed its life in the battle against the
summer heat, and I couldn’t afford to resuscitate it. Nick offered to lend me his
truck, but I’ve got a thing about taking favors, no matter how much fun it might be
to repay them.