Not A Girl Detective (33 page)
Read Not A Girl Detective Online
Authors: Susan Kandel
“You were looking for company?” I asked incredu-
lously.
“No, that wasn’t it.”
I looked into his blue eyes. There were circles under them the same color. Two matched sets.
“I remembered something Edgar kept talking about
the last day we were together. And Edgar never said
anything unless he had a very good reason.”
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I realized that now. I’d finally had a chance to look up who gave Harpo Marx a harp with barbed-wire strings.
It was Salvador Dalí. Edgar was trying to tell me something even then. That he knew. He knew about those
paintings, that they were both Salvador Dalís, from the very beginning.
“Well, what was it?” I asked Jake.
“The attic. He kept talking about the attic.”
Now he tells me.
“Edgar wasn’t sure you’d realize our house had an at-
tic. Good thing you read all those Nancy Drew books.”
That was an understatement.
“Knock-knock. Am I interrupting?”
It was Melinda, from Asher Farrell’s gallery, a
mouse no more. She sauntered in wearing low-rider
jeans, spike-heeled pumps, and a filmy chiffon blouse.
“Cece, meet my new dealer!” Jake said.
“That’s right,” Melinda said. “I’m opening my own
gallery—thanks to something you said, I might add—
and Jake is my first artist.”
“I’m not really dyslexic,” I burst out.
“Great,” she said without blinking. “So how are you
today, Jake? You look better.”
“I feel better.”
“Listen,” I said, getting up. “I’m going to leave the two of you alone. You probably have a lot to talk about.”
“Cece.” Jake took my hand. “Before you go, I have
something for you.”
“I don’t need anything.”
“Don’t be so rash,” Melinda said. “He inherited the
entire kit and caboodle. And he’s giving it all away.”
“I’m keeping the house in Palm Springs.”
“Okay, one thing. The art, all those fabulous collec-
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tions—all going to the best museums. One of the Sal-
vador Dalís is going to the Met—the creepy one, with
the ants. They’ll probably make him head of the board of trustees the way he’s going!”
I could just see Jake seated in the boardroom of the
Met in a tight silk shirt unbuttoned to the waist.
“Where’s the other Dalí going?” I asked.
“To Nancy Olsen,” Jake said. “It’s only right she
should have it.”
I was floored. “Does she know?”
“I’m going to tell her,” said Melinda. “I’m a fan of
her work, you know. My gallery is also going to represent performers.”
“She’s an artist who sings,” I said.
“Of course.”
“You really are amazing, Jake,” I said, rumpling his
hair.
“Melinda,” he asked, “did you bring it?”
“You’re blushing, silly,” she said. “Here, Cece.”
Melinda handed me a book.
It was a first printing of
The Secret in the Old Attic
.
“Jake, I can’t accept this.”
“Sure you can.”
“I can’t break up Edgar’s collection. It meant so
much to him.”
“Edgar of all people understood that a complete col-
lection is death. A collection is vital only insofar as it is marked by a void.”
Even Melinda looked surprised.
Jake turned a deeper shade of red. “I think I read it someplace.”
Aregisteredpackagewaswaitingformethenext
day at the post office on Santa Monica and San Vincente.
For a moment I wondered if Edgar had another sur-
prise for me. But this surprise had come from Clarissa, of all people. I couldn’t wait until I got home so I
opened it right there in the parking lot. It contained a thick folder with the notes for her book on Grace Horton, which she’d decided to abandon, and a handwritten letter, on whisper-thin watermarked paper.
Nancy, it turned out, had flown out to Phoenix to see her mother after talking to me on Monday, frantic with worry about what Clarissa might or might not have
done. Had I been a more sensible individual, Clarissa chided, I would have allayed the poor girl’s fears immediately. But what, she wondered, could she possibly
have expected from someone like me? In any case, she
was certain her notes would prove helpful. Perhaps
they would clear up my numerous misconceptions. As
for her, she was on to a different project, a guide to child-rearing in the age of instant gratification. Since N O T
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she’d done so well with Nancy, she was certain others would benefit from her sage advice.
In closing, Clarissa admonished me not to miss a
small volume with a blue leather cover she had in-
cluded with the notes.
I found it at the bottom of the stack.
It was Grace Horton’s diary.
January 17, 1930. A job. It’s what I’ve been waiting for. The illustrator is a wonder. He thinks I
look the part, except for my hair, which is all
wrong. He wants me to bleach it.
February 3, 1930. I don’t know why I bothered.
My hair, half of which fell out in the sink, wound
up under a blue cloche hat. My back still aches a
week later. I had to stand there, bent at the hip, for
almost four hours. When I left, I took the hat.
April 27, 1934. I am the queen of the fifty-centers!
Everyone teases me. My nieces are beside them-
selves. But I’ve had no work in months now. My
parents sent money, again. I must say it’s nice to
be rich. Not all of us must suffer for our art.
February 2, 1936. Dentine, Pond’s, Milky Way.
March 8, 1937. Jergens, Colgate.
August 20, 1940. Lux.
November 2, 1941. His studio is cold. There is a
nasty draft that comes up between the floor-
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boards. Goose bumps aren’t sexy, he tells me. So
take off your clothes and see how you like it, I say,
laughing. He unbuttons his shirt and then, when
he sees my face, he buttons it up again. He lays out
a bolt of red velvet he found in a closet. Nonetheless, I spend the day shivering.
January 9, 1942. Nothing.
January 22, 1942. Ry-Krisp.
February 18, 1942. He shows me a collage he’s
just finished. He’s cut a ridiculous picture of me
out of an old magazine and surrounded me with a
coterie of adoring sheep. The baby of the family
has a drawer coming out of its stomach and a
phone mounted on its little back. I am supposed
to be delighted. I heard from the agency today.
Nothing.
December 2, 1943. There is a character in the new
Nancy Drew, an artist who is in fact a long-lost
prince. His name is R. H. Ellington. R. H. Tandy—
Russell—and I have a good laugh about it.
September 22, 1944. I’m going home.
September 23, 1944. What if I couldn’t go home?
What then? I’d have to stay. I will stay.
January 18, 1945. I get out a knife. I pry the picture out of the frame. I don’t know if I hate it, but
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I know I can’t bear seeing it. I contemplate throwing it away, but I wind up hiding it. I hope it never
sees the light of day.
I looked up. The rain was falling onto my windshield
in big fat drops. I watched it fall, watched each drop hit the glass, then splatter and trickle down.
Clarissa had had the diary all along. Nancy had been
protecting her mother from something she had known
about before Nancy had even been born. But Clarissa
had made a mistake. She’d assumed that Grace had
come to despise the portrait Edgar had purchased, the one Dalí painted in the style of Russell Tandy. She’d assumed that Grace had regretted posing in the nude. So when she discovered what Edgar’s big surprise was,
she’d canceled his appearance at the convention. She’d believed she was honoring Grace’s wishes, her desire
that the painting never again see the light of day. But of course what Grace could not bear wasn’t the fact that she’d posed in the nude—hardly that—but rather, Salvador Dalí’s horrific vision of her as a cadaver being eaten alive by ants.
The secret truth about Grace Horton was that she
wanted to be seen not as a surreal fantasy but as a
woman.
The secret truth about Carolyn Keene was that she
was only ever a fantasy.
The secret truth about Nancy Drew was that she was
only ever a fantasy of a fantasy. (Try saying that three times fast.)
The point is, fantasies are powerful things. They
take you places you don’t otherwise get to go. They
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are like airplanes, or boats. Or cars. It doesn’t particularly matter if it’s a blue roadster or a silver Camry, as long as the engine turns over when you put the key in the ignition.
On the way home, I called Gambino on his cell
phone.
He picked up on the second ring.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“On Melrose near Crescent Heights. Where are you?”
“In your living room.”
I started to laugh. “Do you have plans?”
“I plan to walk out your front door and watch you
pull into your driveway.”
“I’m only a couple blocks away now. I’m passing
Gelsen’s. I’m passing Melanie and her dog, Scarlett.
They just went into the park.”
“Do you know what day today is?”
I knew it like I knew my own name.
“Six days later, Cece. One week minus one day. We
have a date. Remember?”
I turned onto Orlando Avenue. “A date. You and me.
That definitely rings a bell.”
Gambino was shutting my front door behind him as I
pulled a left into the driveway.
“I put some champagne in an ice bucket.”
“Aren’t you jumping the gun?”
“I don’t know. Am I?” He was walking toward me.
“Where’d you find an ice bucket? I don’t have an ice
bucket.”
We were face-to-face now, still talking into our
phones.
“I bought one.”
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“You hate shopping.”
“Cece,” he said, “answer the question.”
“What question exactly are we talking about?”
He took the phone out of my hand and pulled me
close. “Am I jumping the gun?”
“No,” I said slowly. “You aren’t jumping the gun.”
“I don’t think so either.”
“You don’t
think
so? Don’t you
know
so?”
Poor guy. I gave him no choice. He had to shut me up
with a kiss.
Once again I am grateful to my friends and family, who were always ready with kind words and good ideas. As
if I weren’t lucky enough on that count, I have Sandra Dijkstra for an agent and Carolyn Marino for an editor.
These women know what it means to go the extra mile.
Likewise Angela Tedesco of HarperCollins, who has
worked tirelessly on my behalf.
The Nancy Drew literature is extensive, but of particular use to me were the collector’s bible,
Farah’s Guide,
by David Farah, and Betsy Caprio’s
Girl Sleuth on the
Couch: The Mystery of Nancy Drew
. A special thanks to Jenn Fisher, president of the fan group, Nancy Drew
Sleuths, who allowed me to infiltrate the 2003 Sleuths convention and arranged for access to the Stratemeyer Archive at the New York Public Library. Jenn, as well as the other Sleuths I met in New York, impressed me
greatly with their knowledge and generosity.
3 1 1
A C K N O W L E D G M E N T S
None of this, of course, would be possible without
my husband, Peter Lunenfeld. Unlike Nancy Drew’s
“special friend,” Ned Nickerson, Peter has the patience of a saint—without, thankfully, being one.
SUSAN KANDEL is a former art critic for the
Los Angeles Times. She has taught at
New York University and UCLA, and served as
the editor of the international journal artext.
She lives in West Hollywood, California.
You can visit her website at
www.susankandel.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive
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ation
“Take a shot of Nancy Drew, add a dash of
Mary Kay Andrews and a generous splash of L.A. glam,
then put them in the blender on frappe. Voila!
Out comes the fun and frothy
Not a Girl Detective
. . .
As much classic fun as Cece’s vintage wardrobe,
with twists and turns a la Nancy Drew . . .
colorful characters and a well-paced story.”
Orlando Sentinel
“Kandel delivers on the promise of her first
Cece Caruso mystery . . . with this equally zany and
engrossing riff on Southern California culture past and present . . . In addition to all the Nancy lore,
Kandel weaves her knowledge of art into the puzzle,
and ties everything into a splendid bow. Readers will be anxious to know whose bio she’ll tackle next.”
Publishers Weekly
“Pick up
Not a Girl Detective
. . .