Not A Girl Detective (20 page)

herself, to prevent the truth about Grace Horton from ever coming out. She’d said it herself, the winning individual must turn on a dime, roll with the punches, and sway with the breeze. And be able to handle a twenty-two, I suppose. Stranger things have happened. And

maybe she’d taken the painting on her way out and hidden it somewhere. Or burned it, more likely, so it could never again see the light of day.

Last but not least, there was the crime duo of Andrew and Jake. Jake the hustler, currently running from the police, the erstwhile boyfriend of the deceased, the one (maybe) with the most to gain from Edgar’s death; and Andrew, the erstwhile boyfriend of my second best

friend in the world, in whose desk I found a shiny gold key that had been stolen out of my purse and possibly used to get into the house of the dead man. The two of them were old friends. How old? How good? Andrew

had followed me once. Maybe he’d followed me twice.

Maybe he’d tossed my house with Jake’s help. But

could a man who loves vintage clothing have found it in himself to have thrown my Missoni cocktail dress on

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the floor? And the two of them had been the ones who’d asked me—begged me—to look into this whole thing

to begin with. Were they sincere? Or was it a ruse to throw me off the track?

My stomach started rumbling. I needed more Milano

cookies.

And a bigger whiteboard.

2 0

Say cheese!” The flash went offin Mitchell’s face.

“Ms. Caruso? Is that you? What are you doing?” He

stood in the doorway of the Carroll Avenue house, rubbing his eyes. He was still in his bathrobe at three in the afternoon.

“What am I doing?”

“That’s what I asked. What are you doing?”

“I’m taking pictures of the house is what I’m doing.

Were you asleep?” I stuck the camera in my purse and

started backing down the steps.

“Stop right there.”

“It’s nice to see you, too, Mitchell. I hope you’ve

been well.”

“You just saw me last night.”

“You could’ve taken ill.”

“This is ridiculous. Hold on a minute.” He grabbed

his slippers from the foyer, put them on, unlatched the door, and shut it behind him.

“Okay, but I’m in a hurry. I’ve got to get these developed.”

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“You are too much.”

“Listen, are you sure you want to be seen outside in

that robe, not that brocade isn’t elegant, but given the hour . . .”

“I was out doing yoga. It’s part of my routine. Thursday and Saturday mornings with Guru Chakravorty. I

haven’t had a chance to change since I came home.”

I could just see him in the lotus position. “I’m sure it’s very good for your allergies.”

“Exactly why are you taking pictures of my house?”

“It’s your house now?”

“Edgar’s house, that’s what I meant.” He was livid.

“I’m thinking about covers for my Carolyn Keene bi-

ography. This place is so evocative. It reminds me of the house in number 18,
Mystery at the Moss-Covered
Mansion
. I think it would make a great cover. You know, Edgar’s big old haunted house, the title of the book,
Ghost in the Machine,
spelled out in some spooky font, and then, of course, my name, in huge

gothic letters. What do you think?”

He swatted at his bald scalp. It looked to be his version of knocking his head against the wall. “You need legal permission. Surely even you realize that.”

“Then we should get our people together soon.”

Speechless at that point, he watched me go.

And off I went, to the one-hour photo kiosk at Sav-

On, to my dentist’s office (conveniently open on Saturdays), and then to extend an invitation to my trusty

neighbor, Lois.

I TAPPED MY FOOT impatiently.

Lois smiled at me and reached for another biscuit.

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I paced a bit.

Marlene, her twin, took a lingering sip of coffee.

“Are you done yet, Lois?” I asked. “Marlene?” The

ladies were clearly unacquainted with the usual social clues.

Lois tossed back the rest of her coffee and handed

me her lipstick-smeared cup.

“And here’s mine, Cece,” said Marlene. “Aren’t you

a sweetheart to have us over?”

I walked over to the kitchen and dumped the cups

into the sink. “This isn’t a social call, remember. We’re trying to ascertain who broke into my house, and why.”

For some reason I’d dropped that ball entirely, and

between my whiteboard and a second bag of Milanos, it had finally occurred to me that you couldn’t go wrong proceeding in chronological order. I met Edgar last

Wednesday, my house was broken into Thursday, my

car was vandalized Friday, and Edgar was killed Saturday—exactly one week ago today. Maybe it was time to

go back to the beginning and retrace my steps.

“This is so exciting! Isn’t this exciting, Marlene?”

“It’s one for the memoirs.”

“All right, ladies,” I said, clearing off the coffee

table. “Let’s get down to business. And, Marlene,

please don’t distract your sister.”

“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m here for

moral support.” She gave her sister’s hand a squeeze.

They exchanged looks of pure glee, like five-year-olds with double-dip ice-cream cones.

I laid the pictures of the suspects out.

“So here they are,” I said, reddening a little. Well, I’d done my best. I had the photograph of Mitchell I’d just taken. He was not a photogenic person, plus there was a N O T

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lot of haze. I had Jake’s mug shot from the newspaper.

As for Asher Farrell, I’d stopped at Dr. Fabbiani’s and taken the copy of
People
magazine I’d read there maybe a year ago, in which Farrell had been featured as one of the fifty sexiest bachelors. Andrew was a bit

more complicated. I didn’t exactly want to go over

there and deal with him and Jake just to get a picture. So I’d found the closest approximation I could inside a box of old records I’d been storing in my basement.

“What is this?” Marlene asked.

“Frampton Comes Alive!”
her sister read.

“Was he reincarnated?”

“No, silly,” Lois replied. “It’s a metaphor.”

“Would you look at that gorgeous head of hair! What

I could do with hair like that,” Marlene murmured, fingering her own thinning locks.

They say everybody’s got a twin. Andrew’s was def-

initely Peter Frampton.

Lois scrunched up her face. She put her hands on

Jake’s mug shot and nodded.

“Does he look familiar?” I asked.

“I don’t know . . .” She moved her hands over it, like it was a Ouija board. Then she picked up Mitchell’s

photograph.

“Yes. Yes. He has very cold eyes. And you can’t trust men with no hair.”

“Are you saying you recognize him?”

“He’s definitely a type, but I don’t think it was him at your house that day, no.”

“What about this one?” I asked, handing her
People
magazine, opened to the page with Asher Farrell’s picture on it.

She peered at the page. “Let me get my glasses.”

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Great. She needed glasses. Some witness. She pulled a pair of bifocals out of her handbag and put them on.

“ ‘His eyes closed, his Hugo Boss jacket askew,

Asher Farrell leaned back in his chair and contentedly puffed on a Cuban cigar. Like the difficult art he champions, this smoldering man-about-town has never

played by the rules—’ ”

“Lois. I don’t want you to read the article. Just look at the picture.”

She took her glasses off. “Well, I don’t need these,

then, do I?” She looked offended.

“Where’s your cat?” Marlene asked.

“Probably napping on my keyboard,” I said.

“That’s not good for the computer.”

“I realize that, Marlene. Please. Let your sister con-centrate.”

“All right. I think I’m sure. It was him,” she said,

grabbing
Frampton Comes Alive!
with her left hand,

“and him.” She pointed to the picture of Mitchell.

Andrew and Mitchell? “That’s impossible, Lois. I

don’t even think those two know each other. Are you

positive?”

“Well, let me look again. Okay. I think I have it now.

Yes, yes. The singer and the jailbird. Those were the two. There’s no doubt in my mind.”

Andrew and Jake. Not what I wanted to hear.

“No,” she exclaimed suddenly, patting Peter Framp-

ton’s leonine head. “I’m mistaken. They weren’t this

handsome, those two. I would’ve been far more suspi-

cious if two such handsome men wanted to leave you a

present.”

“Thanks a lot, Lois.”

“For what, dear?”

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Annoyed, I stomped into my bedroom, got my child-

hood photo album from a shelf near the window, and

pulled out pictures of my two older brothers, Richie

and James Jr., in their prom clothes. I went back into the living room and slapped them on the table.

“What about these two, Lois?”

She pondered them.

“Italian, am I right? Look at those eyebrows. Those

ruffled shirts.” She nodded. “That’s them all right. But they were dressed differently, of course. Why have you been holding out on me?”

“Sheer perversity, Lois.”

“Tsk, tsk,” said Marlene.

21

Maybe it was better to do things in
reverse
chronological order. Look at the
Godfather
movies. And ré-

sumés, not that I was such an expert. The first job I’d ever had was waitressing at D’Amico’s Pizza in Asbury Park. The getups they’d made us wear were inspired by Olivia Newton-John in
Grease,
when she finally hooked up with John Travolta in the last scene. I hadn’t needed a résumé to get hired, just big hair and spandex pants. I fell asleep remembering how badly I’d wanted to be blond that year. And Australian.

I was awakened the next morning by my cat, who

stared me down across the quilt. I could feel her warm breath on my face. The little yowls were about to begin.

It was sort of a ritual.

I had a morning ritual, too, only it involved the
L.A.

Times,
the
N.Y. Times,
and a pot of Hawaiian hazelnut coffee. On Sundays, I sometimes threw in a cheese

Danish from the bakery at Gelson’s, the most over-

priced market in the Los Angeles metropolitan area,

which just happened to be located around the corner. I N O T

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sat up and looked at the clock. Five forty-five. I flopped back down and pulled the quilt over my head. The papers hadn’t even been delivered. The coffeemaker was

set for nine. Mimi burrowed under the covers and

started nipping at my feet. It was hopeless now. Oh,

well. It was a good thing to rise before the sun. One could accomplish many things.

I hurled the covers onto the floor, put on my slippers, and padded out to the office. I would work on my index, a hideous, thankless task of epic proportions. If I

started now, perhaps I’d be done by the turn of the next millennium.

I put the heat on low, settled myself at my desk, and started composing a list of key names, words, and

phrases.

Carolyn Keene. Nancy Drew. Stratemeyer Syndi-

cate. Harriet Stratemeyer Adams. Mildred Wirt Benson.

This wasn’t so bad. All I had to do was come up with

maybe a thousand of these. Russell H. Tandy. Ned

Nickerson. George Fayne. Bess Marvin. Hannah

Gruen. It was a piece of cake, really. Missing will. Lost inheritance. Misplaced manuscript. Stolen jewels.

Roadster. Country club. Clothing allowance. Spoiled

rotten. Pudding. Nancy and her friends never missed a pudding. Bess had weight issues, George was the athletic type, and Nancy wouldn’t know a diet if it hit her over the head. Pot roast. Creamed spinach. Lemon

meringue pie. Anorexia. Bulimia. Self-loathing. Ado-

lescence. Woman’s intuition. Feminine identity. Liberation. Servitude. Double bind. No exit. Man, was I tired.

Four hours later, I woke up at my desk with a crease

running down my left cheek. It was from a second edi-

tion of
Honey Bunch: Her First Little Treasure Hunt,
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one of Mildred Wirt Benson’s lesser efforts. It made a very bad pillow.

I turned off the heat and went inside to brush my

teeth, which usually woke me right up, but I had a scare before I could squeeze the toothpaste onto the brush. It consisted of seeing my face in the mirror. My eyes were puffy, my hair was a mess, and there was a red stripe extending from my forehead to my chin. I looked

ghastly. Working on my index had not been good for

my feminine identity. I could’ve been a painting by Salvador Dalí.

Which gave me pause.

I had been neglecting my index cards.

One of them in particular seemed to be calling out to me. That would be the pink one that read “Salvador

Dalí/Too many nipples/Too many coincidences.” I was

listening now. Why the hell not?

Woman’s intuition beats reverse chronological order

on average three to one.

“WATCH IT!” A girl in a UCLA sweatshirt sped past me

on her bike, her long blond hair slapping me in the face.

“You watch it!”

Late for a chemistry lab, or an astronomy lecture, or maybe a Chaucer reading group. I hated her. Only because I’d once wanted to be her. But I’d made the mistake of taking that job at D’Amico’s when I was sixteen instead of prepping for the SATs.