Not A Girl Detective (10 page)

crowded out by newer subdivisions. Edgar Edwards’s

desert hideaway was somewhere in there.

The shadows shifted. The date palms swayed. The

breeze caressed my cheeks. This was paradise. Appar-

ently, I was not alone in this opinion. I turned up a steep hill thronged with houses. Many of the newer places

had a watered-down, generically Mediterranean feel in-distinguishable from that of your average So-Cal up-

scale chain restaurant. Elsewhere, kitsch abounded.

There were several statues of impudent cupids peeing

in plaster fountains. A lone cactus stood guard over a house with a golf ball–shaped mailbox. We passed another place with a butterfly roof so exaggerated it

looked ready for liftoff. Another had a mirrored front door and a Rolls-Royce golf cart parked out front.

Edgar Edwards’s glass and steel house was impossi-

ble to miss. Perched on a jagged outcropping, it was

pure drama—just the way the man liked things. Why

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else would he keep a loon like Mitchell Honey around?

I drove to the end of the long pebbled drive, then cut the engine. It was dark now, and I should have been exhausted, but I’ve always been something of a contrarian.

Lael got out of the car and stretched like a cat after a marathon nap. “I feel amazing!”

“Me, too,” I said, taking a deep breath. “There must

be something in the air.”

“My armpits,” said Bridget. “So who’s going to help

me with all this shit?”

We hauled everything out of the car. I put up the top and locked the doors. For a moment I was surprised to see lights on inside. Then I remembered our host was in town. Given the change in circumstances, I had no idea what to expect. After all, I barely knew him. Probably more drama. Would he slam the door in our faces? If

he’d decided upon an impromptu tryst with skinny

Jake, that was a good possibility. Still, the place looked huge, and I was broke—both mitigating factors.

We’d stay out of their way. We weren’t going to be

home all that much anyway. And in the evenings, we

could all hang out around the pool doing cannonballs

while Lael made s’mores and Bridget mooned over her

boyfriend. It’d be just like summer camp.

Bridget started to drag the first of her steamer trunks up the narrow flagstone path, which was flanked by

huge boulders, the kind you couldn’t haul up a hill just for atmosphere. “I like this place. It’s unyielding, but tranquil.”

Lael looked dubious.

“Talk about unyielding, what did you put in this

thing?” I asked, kicking the other trunk up the walk. “A body?”

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“What do they say about people who live in glass

houses?” Lael asked.

“They should shower in their swimsuits,” I replied.

“You’re such a prude,” said Bridget, smiling.

“At least my boyfriend’s of age.”

“Oh, are we going there again, honey?”

“Cut it out, you two,” said Lael.

I rang the bell.

“Didn’t he give you a key?” she asked.

I pulled it out of my purse. “But I think he’s in there.

I don’t want to walk in unannounced.”

I rang again, but there was no answer.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” said Bridget.

“Good idea.” I opened the door, hoping we weren’t

intruding on anything.

“Holy smoking Josephine!” Bridget exclaimed.

She did have a way of putting things. The place was

right out of the pages of
Architectural Digest:
textbook midcentury modern, with a Barcelona lounger and

Eames chairs and birch built-ins and sleek aluminum

shutters and thick walls of glass. So unlike Edgar’s

sepulchral mansion on Carroll Avenue. But I had the

same feeling of not being able to breathe.

“Hello,” I called out. “Is anybody here?”

“Nobody here but us freeloaders,” said Bridget.

“Then why are the lights on?”

“We are not freeloaders,” Lael said briskly. “We are

going to leave a carrot cake as thanks. And some per-

fumed soaps.” She frowned at Bridget disapprovingly,

then went to nose around. Bridget and I plopped down

on a long, low black leather sofa, which offered little in the way of comfort.

“Hmm,” said Bridget.

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“Beverages might help matters,” I said.

“I can fix that.” She grabbed a bag and headed into

the kitchen. We’d picked up provisions at the liquor

store at the bottom of the hill.

“You should see these towels,” called Lael from the

bathroom. “They’re folded like origami flowers.”

I heard the sound of glass breaking in the kitchen.

“Sorry,” called Bridget. “It’s slippery in here. I like my floors to have a little grit on ’em.”

It
was
kind of eerie how pristine the house was. I got up to look around, thinking about the white gloves

Edgar had asked me to put on before touching his

books. The man obviously had a hygiene fetish. A lily pond ran the length of the breezeway leading from the living room to the bedrooms. The water was smooth

and glassy. I couldn’t resist sticking my finger in it, and immediately felt like a criminal. Crimes against hygiene. Guilty as charged.

The door to the master bedroom was open. The bed

looked like it had been carved out of rock. Everything else was glass and mirrors. There wasn’t a fingerprint, a smudge, or a speck of dust anywhere. Not an item out

of place—not a book, a newspaper, an ashtray, sun-

glasses, keys, nothing. I looked inside the closet.

Empty. Hmm. Maybe Edgar was still on the road.

I slid open the glass doors. The elliptical pool was

pushed right up to the edge of the house. Again with the drama. I hoped Edgar didn’t walk in his sleep.

Outside, the full moon looked like a glowing beach

ball. I heard the popping of a cork. Bridget and Lael appeared, holding crystal glasses and champagne. There

was no place to sit so we propped the bottle against a bush and stretched out on the grass, which was clipped N O T

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low, like carpeting. We lay there for hours, talking, until Bridget and Lael staggered off to bed. I hugged them good night, then grabbed a blanket from the hall closet and went back outside with the romantic idea of finding the Big Dipper. I’d never been much of a stargazer. I was always too busy. But that night I felt like I had all the time in the world.

The next thing I remembered was the sun coming up

and the sprinklers going on.

I decided to skip my shower.

9

We spent the morning at a number ofthrift stores,

trying on various abominations (including a purple

python–print caftan and an orange-and-white polka-

dot jumpsuit with rhinestone trim) and convincing ourselves they would make fabulous conversation pieces,

until we came to our senses and remembered that no

one actually wants to look like a conversation piece.

Bridget declared the whole morning a bust, though we

did earn the undying friendship of one fellow shopper, a biker sporting Doc Martens and a handlebar mustache, who was set on a well-priced peach mother-of-

the-bride dress until we convinced him it was just too short in the torso. We found him a lovely striped shift instead.

It was about eleven-thirty when I headed over to the

hotel. I wasn’t on for another couple of hours, but

Edgar—wherever he might be—was scheduled for

noon and I didn’t want to miss a minute. The girls had finally decided on seaweed body wraps and video

poker (Bridget’s idea) at the Spa Hotel and Casino

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down the street. They’d promised to be back at the Oak Salon by two.

Norman was out front parking cars. “Let’s hear it for SaturDaze! Today’s event needs a warning tag—not for

the faint of heart!”

I looked at him. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“They told me to say that,” he said, embarrassed.

“Don’t forget your validation.”

The crowd in the lobby had reached epic propor-

tions. It looked like the set of an all-girl Cecil B. DeMille movie. Somebody stepped on my little toe, an

errant margarita almost ended up in my handbag, and I got stuck for a while between two shrieking women in

Mardi Gras beads who hadn’t seen each other since

1973, but I finally made it across the room. It was too early for the hard stuff, so I decided on a cup of coffee.

I needed to stall anyway. The last thing I wanted to do was interrupt the scavenger hunt in progress.

The Bugle Bar was tucked into a dark alcove. The

music was silky R&B, but the decor was colonial raj, lots of rattan.

The bartender was polishing glasses.

“Excuse me?” No answer. “Excuse me, barkeep?”

“ ‘Barkeep!’ ” echoed a woman sipping something

blue. She was wearing a Stars-and-Stripes visor. “I love that!” She turned to the woman sitting next to her. “Did you hear what she said? ‘Barkeep’! That is so cute.”

“You’re so cute,” the second woman murmured.

I caught a glimpse of her. “Victoria? Is that you?”

“Cece Caruso!” she said, leaning over her friend to

grab my hand. “How delightful to find you here!”

“How delightful to find
you
here! And without your twin sister.”

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“How are you?”

“Good. You?”

“I’m wonderful.” She paused for a second. “And you

are here for . . . ?”

“The convention, of course.”

“Which convention?”

“The Nancy Drew fan convention.”

“I am so relieved to hear you say that,” she said. “I mean, you and my cousin Peter and everything.”

“Isn’t that what you’re here for?”

“Oh, no,” she said, wrinkling her freckled nose. “I’m on holiday.”

“Oh.” I did a little drumroll on the bar. “That’s great.”

“What’s great?”

“That you’re out—I mean out and about, not
out
out, because that’s none of my business, of course.” I felt my cheeks getting hot.

“But I am out. And it’s totally fine.”

“I’m just happy to see you so happy.”

She smiled. “Thanks. This is my partner, Celeste, by

the way.”

“Pleased to meet you, Celeste.”

“You, too. ‘Barkeep,’ I love that,” she said, chuck-

ling. “What are you having, Cece?”

“Just coffee.”

This time the bartender heard me. A steaming mug

materialized as if by magic.

“So,” asked Victoria, “have you talked to Peter

lately?”

I tore open a packet of sugar and spilled the white

crystals into my cup. Then I poured in some cream and watched it swirl into nothingness. “Not since he left for Buffalo, no.”

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“Is everything okay with you two?”

I looked up into her kind eyes. They ran in the family.

“Not really.”

“What is it?”

I sighed. “I’ve made so many mistakes with men that

I’m not sure I can trust my own instincts anymore. And I’m ruining everything.”

“You’re not ruining anything.”

“I should say not,” added Celeste.

“Peter is crazy about you,” Victoria continued. “He

told me so himself. And he’s a straight arrow.”

“Do you mean straight shooter, hon?” asked Celeste.

“That, too. I mean, someone a person can count on.

When we were kids he used to beat up anybody who

was mean to me.”

“Even Dena?” I asked.

“I see you know Victoria’s evil twin,” said Celeste.

Victoria laughed. “Peter did once steal all of Dena’s Halloween candy, which about killed her. He ate all the Sweet Tarts and gave me everything else.”

“He still likes Sweet Tarts,” I said. “The candy.”

“I know. Listen, we’ve got to go.” She took my hand

and gave it a squeeze.

Celeste finished her drink and the two of them

walked away, arm in arm. Some people seemed to have

things all figured out. Then again, I’d always been a late bloomer. Maybe there was still hope.

Upstairs, it should have been business as usual. But

Clarissa, an ice bucket in each hand, accosted me as I got off the elevator.

“You’re riding down with me,” she said, pushing me

back in.

“I am?”

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“The ice machine on this floor is broken and we need

to talk.”

“That sounds ominous,” I said, pressing the button

for the lobby.

She shoved the ice buckets at me, then bent down

and pulled off a red high-heeled pump.

“Blisters?”

“Pebbles.” Once her shoe was back on her foot, she

directed the full intensity of her gaze on me. “So. Cece.

If I have learned anything I have learned that one must be flexible. The winning individual must be able to turn on a dime, roll with the punches, sway with the breeze, do you read me?”

“I read you.”

“You are on in five minutes. Edgar Edwards is his-

tory.”

“What do you mean, ‘Edgar Edwards is history’?”

“That’s precisely what I mean. I trust you speak En-

glish?”

“Clarissa, take it easy.”

“I’m getting upset. Don’t get me upset, Cece. That’s

a very bad idea.”

I could see that. So. The ladies weren’t going to see the nude portrait of Grace Horton after all. Did that mean I was supposed to go back to my previous comments? Or was I going to plow ahead and tell them

about a painting they weren’t going to see and that was likely to make them crazy if and when they did see it?