by Susan Kandel
I walked back into the dining room and stuck a Post-it note onto the whiteboard. It read “Premeditated murder: a whole different ball of wax.”
Moving on to Nancy Drew.
Jake said that Edgar had been worried and that it had something to do with Nancy Drew. Now that I gave it some thought I realized it was probably just a line, something to reel me in with. But it was worth considering for a moment.
For Nancy Drew, I needed a yellow pad.
Edgar was obsessed with Nancy Drew. Mitchell was privy to the details. Did he share the obsession? Did he want to get his hands on Edgar’s books? That was ridiculous. The whole lot couldn’t be valued at more than, say—I started scribbling numbers on the yellow pad—$50,000, maybe. That wasn’t worth killing for. Unless, of course, you were a member of the Nancy Drew Society of Chums. I’d get to them later. Which led me to the matter of the missing portrait of naked Nancy, if it was indeed missing, which I was willing to bet it was. I drew a red arrow on the whiteboard from Mitchell’s name to the words “Blue Nancy Drew.”
Where was that painting? All of Edward’s things were exactly where they belonged. The fans were still in the dining room, the kitchen knives in the kitchen, the books in the blue bedroom. But the painting wasn’t in the closet where I’d last seen it. And it hadn’t been found anywhere in the Palm Springs house. And Mitchell and Asher Farrell kept asking me if Edgar had given me anything, which tended to suggest that they were looking for something that wasn’t where they thought it was supposed to be. Which begged the question of why either of them should know. Or care.
Asher Farrell. He merited a big piece of whiteboard real estate. He was already a convicted felon, for starters. You learn all sorts of things in prison, and I don’t mean the finer points of tax fraud. He sold Edgar the aforementioned painting of Grace Horton, and though he was acting blasé about it, there was more to the story. That was a given.
Asher Farrell was a bad guy. And he knew I knew. Maybe Edgar knew, too, and he (Asher) knew it (that Edgar knew). And maybe what Edgar knew was that Farrell was up to no good once again. One of his signature scams was selling multimillion-dollar artworks using invoices with fraudulent out-of-state corporate delivery addresses, to avoid sales tax. He’d been caught once, but you know what they say about old dogs and new tricks. Well, reverse it. Of course, you need the cooperation of your client to get away with this one. And your gallery staff. Maybe Melinda wasn’t so innocent. Maybe Edgar, good citizen that he was, was ready to blow the whistle on everybody.
And what did Salvador Dalí have to do with it? Was it mere coincidence that Mitchell and Asher Farrell were both interested in Salvador Dalí? Why had his name rung a bell? Salvador Dalí was now a pink index card.
Suddenly I remembered Lael. I’d left her another message on my way to Book Soup, but she still hadn’t called me back. I’d try her one more time.
Lael’s fifteen-year-old son, Tommy, answered the phone. That couldn’t be good.
“What are you doing home? Is everything okay over there?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Well, aren’t you kids supposed to be at the dads’ houses for the weekend?”
“Yeah, but my dad’s ulcer was acting up. He wasn’t that into having me around, so I came home.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“He eats for shit, that’s why.”
Tommy and his eleven-year-old half sister, Nina, had recently become vegans, much to Lael’s distress.
“Do you want to talk to Mom?”
“Yes.”
“She’s out.”
“Where’d she go?”
“I don’t know.”
“But everything’s fine with her?”
“Sure.”
“Have you actually seen her?”
“I just said so.”
“No, you said she was out.”
“I saw her.”
Thank goodness.
“Yeah and she looked like shit, too. All that refined sugar. The body can’t process it.”
“Your mother is gorgeous. Show some respect, young man.”
He laughed. “Yes, ma’am.”
“‘Ma’am.’ I like it. Don’t forget to tell your mom I called.”
Speaking of parents and children, you wouldn’t want to forget the Olsens, mother and daughter, Big Psycho and Little Psycho. I hung up the phone and wrote their names beneath Asher Farrell’s, then drew red arrows back up to Edgar. My flow chart was starting to get very congested.
The daughter was a practiced liar, somebody who for the hell of it would pretend to be her own neighbor. Well, maybe not for the hell of it, but to stick it to her mother via me. What else would she do to hurt Clarissa? Would she kill Edgar to ruin her mother’s Nancy Drew convention? That seemed a bit farfetched. But I’d still never gotten a straight answer about what she was doing with a slide of Edgar’s painting—a painting that would undoubtedly unhinge the woman in question, not to mention compromise the book she was working on, the bona fide, true-life, G-rated story of Grace Horton, patron saint of nude models.
What exactly is an artist who sings?
I dialed Gambino at work.
He’d called me last night while I was at Asher Farrell’s party, then again this morning while I was at the gallery. That art-dealing scumbag was ruining my social life. I walked back into the kitchen for another glass of milk. There was no answer, of course, but I left him a long and rambling message asking if he’d like to go see a cabaret show tomorrow night in Silver Lake. He was probably going to be stuck out in Yucaipa again. I couldn’t wait until that murder investigation came to a close so we could get back to the more pleasant business of being in love.
Let me try that one more time.
I am in love with Peter Gambino.
Hmm.
I am in love with Peter Gambino.
Interesting.
So what about Clarissa? Maybe she’d found out about the painting somehow and done the dirty deed 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 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.
20
Say cheese!” The flash went off in 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.”
“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 biography. 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.
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 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 definitely 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.” 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 concentrate.”
“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 Frampton’s leonine head. “I’m mistaken. They weren’t this handsome, those two. I would’ve been far more suspicious if two such handsome men wanted to leave you a present.”
“Thanks a lot, Lois.”
“For what, dear?”
Annoyed, I stomped into my bedroom, got my childhood 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 résumés, 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 sometim
es 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 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 Syndicate. 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. Adolescence. 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 edition of Honey Bunch: Her First Little Treasure Hunt, 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.
