Not A Girl Detective (15 page)

“Yes?”

“We’re looking for Jake Waite. We have reason to be-

lieve he’s in town. Somebody tried to get some of

Edgar Edwards’s money out of an ATM on Wilshire

and Vermont last night.”

Idiots.

“Have you seen him, Ms. Caruso?”

They couldn’t possibly know where I’d been. “No,

of course not. I told you, I don’t even know him.”

She looked at me through that shock of gray hair.

“And you don’t know Edgar Edwards. And you don’t

know Mitchell Honey. And you don’t know anything.

You just happened to find the body.”

“That’s the way it is,” I said, throwing up my hands.

“I’m sorry I can’t make it any easier for you.”

“Don’t worry about making it easier for us,” Dun-

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phy said, jumping in. “Just call if you see Jake, all right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good-bye.”

“Wait.” Something had occurred to me.

“What is it?” Dunphy asked.

“When you went through Edgar’s house, in Palm

Springs, did you happen to find a painting?”

“What kind of painting?” Dunphy glanced at her

partner.

“A small painting of a nude woman.”

Dunphy cleared her throat. She had put on lipstick

today and looked almost fetching.

“We didn’t see anything like that hanging on the

wall, Ms. Caruso,” she said, carefully choosing her

words.

“How about in a closet, or the garage, or under the

bed, or someplace like that?”

“No,” said Dunphy.

“Is there something you want to tell us, Ms.

Caruso?” Lasarow asked. “About that painting or any-

thing else?”

“No. Nothing. It just relates to some work I’m doing.

I’m sorry to bother you with something so silly.”

Maybe Edgar hadn’t brought the painting with him to

Palm Springs, after all. Or maybe the surprise he’d

planned for Clarissa was something else entirely.

I got into my Camry—which, by the way, Maynard

had successfully resuscitated, cup holder and all—and sped through the wrought iron gates.

It felt better leaving than arriving.

14

The gathering on Carroll Avenue was under way by

the time I got there. A pretty young Latina opened the door and directed me to a guest book. I signed my name but didn’t feel right about sharing a memory. My last memory of Edgar wasn’t exactly the kind of thing you

wanted to share.

In the living room a jazz combo was playing and

waitresses were passing hors d’oeuvres. It should’ve

been lovely but the house smelled like rot. I had the overwhelming desire to throw open the curtains and

steam-clean the rugs, not that I’d ever steam-cleaned anything. How could Edgar have tolerated it? Maybe

he’d had a split personality: dark Edgar lived in the shadows and dust, while light Edgar craved the desert sun and Fantastik.

I hung out for a while in the library with a tubby

friend of Edgar’s from the Chicago days, who shared a heartfelt memory about the time they’d wired an ex-lover’s bed so he’d receive an electric shock every time he lay down.

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Then I joined a group of Edgar’s neighbors, who

were complaining about the difficulties of owning a

home in a designated historic preservation zone. One

man spent an entire year trying to get a permit to in-stall a built-in dishwasher, and Edgar, apparently, had spent two years trying to get permission to turn his attic into a third-floor bedroom only to give up entirely.

Emboldened, I launched into a defense of illegal

garage conversions, but when they realized I lived in unprotected West Hollywood, they tuned me out like

yesterday’s news.

From there, I headed into the dining room, where I

hung out with a petite lawyer who consumed a prodi-

gious amount of cheese. She told me she had once done some real estate work for Edgar and had found him to

be an excellent negotiator. He was someone who al-

ways got exactly what he wanted, without you even re-

alizing it. I nodded. I could believe it. But what had Edgar wanted from me?

After that, I was party to a failed seduction.

“I’m a Sagittarius,” said a pear-shaped man, sidling

over to a short woman stationed by the table. She was carrying a
New York Times
crossword puzzle tote bag.

“That’s the sign of the hunter. I am spiritual and sensual. I don’t hold grudges and I’m disarmingly happy.

What sign were you born under?”

The woman popped a soda cracker into her mouth

and, hefting her bag in my direction, asked, “What sign is she?”

“Scorpio,” I answered. Scorpios are fiery, intense,

and creative.

“Ah, the scorpion,” he said. “You are secretive, con-

trolling, and manipulative.”

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I suppose it’s all in how you spin it. I turned to the woman. “I believe this man asked you a question.”

She wiped the crumbs from her mouth. “I was born

under the sign of the schlep.”

It seemed like a good time to get a glass of wine. Better yet, to go upstairs. There was a closet I needed to check.

The second-floor landing was dark. There was a

stained-glass skylight overhead covered with wet

leaves, which meant that even in the daytime it

would’ve felt like the middle of the night. I stood still for a moment, listening for signs of life. Dead calm. Everyone was downstairs. Good. Except that unfortunately, I couldn’t remember which way the blue bedroom was.

I stared down the long hallway at a series of closed

doors. It seemed like a sign. Turn back. You are not

dressed for success. You do not own a maroon gabar-

dine suit and floppy tie.

Then I thought of Clarissa. The winning individual

must be able to turn on a dime, roll with the punches, sway with the breeze.

I tried the first door on the left. It was full of gym equipment. The second door on the left seemed to be

Edgar’s bedroom. No, thank you. The third door

opened onto an office of some kind. I flicked on the

light. There was a big oak desk pushed up against the wall, underneath a painting of a crusty old fisherman.

There were books everywhere. Looking at people’s

books is even better than looking in their medicine cabinets. I tiptoed in.

French Symbolism. The Warhol Look. Dada, Surreal-

ism, and Their Heritage
. The latter was propped up N O T

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against a tower of Kleenex boxes. This had to be

Mitchell Honey’s office. Every family needs a curator.

The surrealism book was opened to a section on Sal-

vador Dalí. I’d come across something else about Sal-

vador Dalí recently, but I couldn’t remember what. Oh, well. I sat down. Then I looked up at the ceiling. No glitter trap in evidence. Still, I wasn’t opening any drawers.

I started reading. In 1939 Dalí designed a window

display at Bonwit Teller in New York featuring a fur-

lined bathtub. The store was unhappy with it, and in the ensuing agitation the artist crashed through the display window’s plate glass. I read on. Dalí’s famous painting of melting watches was inspired by a very ripe Camem-bert: “. . . one of the strangest statements in art of man’s obsession with the nature of time.” I looked up at the clock, chastened. Time waits for no man. I turned off the light and went back into the hall. I tried the next door.

This was it.

I took one quick look around, just to make sure I was still alone, then went in, closing the door behind me.

The Shrine.

Everything looked the same as it had the other day:

the blue wallpaper, the blue bed, the blue shelves lined with the Nancy Drew books. And unlike the rest of the house, the air smelled fresh, like Ivory soap.

Last time I was here I hadn’t noticed a shelf filled

with scripts from the Nancy Drew TV series. It had

aired briefly in the late seventies, with Pamela Sue

Martin (a brunette) playing the lead. The premiere

episode outranked other detective shows like
Kojak,
Barnaby Jones,
and
Starsky and Hutch,
but the series 132

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lasted only a season. Then Pamela Sue Martin made an

appearance on the cover of
Playboy,
wearing a seduc-tively draped trench coat. When asked how she could

do such a thing to the fans, she answered, “What the

hell do you think? You think I’m Nancy Drew?”

Sounded like she and Grace Horton would’ve had a

lot to talk about.

Grace Horton. The reason I was here. Well, one of

the reasons.

I walked past the bookshelves to the closet, my pulse racing. This was where Edgar had kept the painting.

But when I opened the door and looked inside, it wasn’t there. There were a couple of wire hangers on the rod, a water-stained box of envelopes on the floor, and that was about it unless you count the dust.

So where the hell was the painting?

Just then I heard footsteps out in the hall. Damn it, I didn’t want to get caught. If I’d had any sense whatsoever, I’d have marched right out the door and pretended I’d been looking for the bathroom. But no, I had to

panic. I had to go and hide inside the closet.

Maybe it was someone who really was looking for

the bathroom. I’d wait for the flush, give it a few minutes, and then come out. But time passed awfully

slowly in that tiny, stuffy closet. I stared at the four walls. I studied the hangers, which are actually ingen-ious devices. I was done. It couldn’t have been more

than three minutes and I was going mad. Feeling

claustrophobic. Then I heard the door to the blue bedroom open. Shit. I was done for. My foot started to

itch. Oh, hell, let the chips fall where they may. I threw open the door.

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“Cece Caruso?”

“Nancy Olsen?”

What was she doing here?

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for something,” I said. Honesty is the

best policy, not that this minikilted minx would know anything about that. “How about you?”

“I knew Edgar. The jazz world.”

“I thought you were into punk.”

“I’m into whatever.”

“Obviously.”

“I’m paying my respects to Edgar.”

“In his bedroom? That’s a little strange.”

“This
isn’t
his bedroom. And what did you say
you
were doing here? In his closet?”

“This
isn’t
his closet. And I said I was looking for something.”

“For what?”

“A nude portrait of your grandmother, Grace Horton.”

That shut her up.

“Grace Horton
was
your grandmother, right?” I walked over to the blue bed.

“That’s right,” she said, fiddling with her purse,

which was shaped like a crescent moon. She pulled out her cigarettes, then put them back. She didn’t want to look me in the eye.

“Amazing,” I said, smoothing out a wrinkle in the

spread.

“Not really. Everybody’s got a grandmother.”

“My grandmother’s claim to fame was her baked

ziti.”

“Lucky you.”

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“What was Grace like?”

“She died before I was born. I never knew her.”

“But your mother knew her. She’s writing a book

about her.”

“Looks that way.” The mother is always the sore spot.

“So, Nancy, what do you know about the painting?” I

wanted to know why she had that slide in her car.

“So, Cece, what do you know about it?”

“I know that Edgar was planning to show it at your

mother’s Nancy Drew party, but that didn’t happen.

Somehow, it’s disappeared.”

“What are you implying?”

“Me? Absolutely nothing. But I do suggest you lock

up your car in the future.You don’t want to lose anything valuable.” I turned on my heel. Let her stew for a change.

ANOTHER NIGHT OF tossing and turning.

The phone stopped ringing around eleven. I thought

about Edgar. I looked up
fan
in the encyclopedia and learned many things. That in ancient Greece palm-leaf fans were sacred instruments used to tend the fire of the virgin goddess Hestia. That in China peacock-feather

fans kept the wheels of the empress’s chariot free from dust. That in eighteenth-century France fans had a lan-guage all their own. Twirling a fan in the left hand, for example, meant that you were being watched.

I went through all three hundred channels two times.

There was nothing to watch. I filed my nails. I turned off the light. I turned on the light. I reread
The Moon-stone Castle Mystery
. I ate a bag of Milano cookies.

Then the doorbell rang.

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It was Gambino. Unshaven and bleary-eyed, he

looked beautiful to me.

I didn’t lose my nerve.

And I didn’t get any sleep.

Given the circumstances, however, that was fine

with me.

15

Gambino and I looked at each other across the break-

fast table.

“Great toast,” I said.

“Great coffee.”

“Want some jam?” I asked.

“Want some insulin?”

“You’re not suggesting I’m laying it on too thick, are you?” I wagged my spoon at him. A dollop of raspberry jam landed on the sports section.

“ ‘I love you’ was the easy part, Cece.”