Not A Girl Detective (5 page)

forgetting I had fallen asleep with my contacts in. Mistake. “What time is it?”

“It’s nine-thirty in the morning! Wake up! Edgar is

missing! Gone! Vanished!”

“Mitchell, honey, is that you?”

“Don’t get smart with me, Ms. Caruso. What did you

say to him?”

“Nothing,” I said, heading toward the bathroom for

my robe. I couldn’t possibly have a conversation with this guy naked. “What are you, his jailer?” Buster nuz-zled my ankle. “I love you,” I murmured.

“What?”

“Not you. Listen, he’s probably out walking the dog.”

“We don’t own a dog. We loathe dogs.” He started

sneezing.

“Then he went to Starbucks for coffee.” I needed

coffee.

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“Edgar drinks green tea.”

“Starbucks has green tea.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Maybe he’s sick of green tea. Maybe he wants to

live dangerously for a change.”

“For a change?”

I wasn’t touching that one.

“Did Edgar give you anything yesterday?” Mitchell

asked abruptly.

Interesting question.

As a matter of fact, Edgar had given me something

the day before, which had been kind of strange. It

wasn’t that he seemed the grudging sort—hardly—just

someone who’d value expedience as highly as generos-

ity. But I suppose he and I had bonded over the freakish sight of naked Nancy Drew, because as I was leaving

his house, he’d put something in my hand.

It was a brand-new, shiny gold key.

“For you and your girlfriends,” he’d explained. “I

want you to stay at my house in Palm Springs, for the convention. I want this to be a weekend you’ll never

forget.”

The probability of that was increasing hourly.

“Ms. Caruso, are you there?” Mitchell Honey’s dul-

cet tones interrupted my train of thought. “Are you listening? I asked you if Edgar gave you anything

yesterday?”

I hesitated for just a minute. “No, nothing.”

“Well, you were the last one to see him.”

“I left before lunch. How is that possible?”

“I left before you did—after marinating the chicken,

which nobody touched, I might add.”

“Fresh garlic is a must.”

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“Garlic is a deterrent to intimacy. Do you have issues in that area, Ms. Caruso?”

Nice. “What do you want with me, Mitchell?”

“When I came back home, sometime around mid-

night, everybody was out. So I went to bed. When I

woke up this morning, I was still alone.”

“Looks like I’m not the only one with intimacy is-

sues.”

“I have just about had it with you,” he yelled. “I am calling the police and I am telling them you were the last one to see Edgar before he disappeared.”

“Fine.”

“Fine!”

“You do realize they won’t do anything for twenty-

four hours.” Just enough coffee for a full pot. But nothing to eat except jam. “He’s not even considered

missing until then.”

“How do you know that?”

“My boyfriend is a cop.” Who claims to be in love

with me. But talk is cheap.

“Edgar is a very powerful person. He knows the

mayor. That’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to call the mayor.”

“Don’t you think you might be overreacting a little?”

I asked, spooning some jam into my mouth with my

free hand. “What does Jake say?”

“I don’t know where Jake is either.”

“Well, there you go. They’re probably together.”

“You obviously don’t get it. Jake often spends the

night away.”

The coffee would be ready soon. I wanted to drink in

peace. I had to feed the pets. I had to go to the market.

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bye.” I dropped the sticky spoon into the sink. “He’s going to turn up any minute. Jake, too. You shouldn’t

worry.”

“Bitch,” he muttered as he hung up.

It was way too early for this.

The phone rang again.

“You’d catch more bees with honey than vinegar,

you know.”

“Cece?”

“Oh, Clarissa, hi. How are you?” It was a little early for Nancy Drew–related matters.
All My Children

wasn’t on for hours.

“I’m in a bit of a panic, actually.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s my daughter, Nancy.”

“The one who lives in L.A.? The singer?”

“Nancy is an artist who sings. And I only have one.”

“Sorry.”

“Well,” she blurted out, “she’s missing. My daughter

is missing.”

What the hell was going on this morning?

“What do you mean, ‘missing’?”

“She hasn’t answered any of my calls in days.”

I sighed in relief. “Daughters are like that. You’d be in trouble if she did answer all your calls.”

“We’re very close.”

“My daughter and I are close, too,” I said, bristling,

“but she doesn’t jump when I call. She’s got a life.”

“Nancy has a life, too, believe me, but she would

never do this. She’s supposed to be helping out in Palm Springs this weekend, for one thing, and we needed to work out the details. She knows how important this

convention is for me. And I’m supposed to fly out from 36

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Phoenix tomorrow. It’s just not like her to ignore me when she knows how much I need her.”

“Take a breath. It’s going to be fine.”

“Cece. I wouldn’t ask this if it wasn’t important.”

Warning bells began to sound in my ears.

“Nancy doesn’t live too far from where you are, out

there in Hollywood.”

So easily confused with Sodom.

“If you could just go by her apartment and ring the

doorbell, that would be wonderful. And if she answers, that’s that. Case closed. My mind would be at rest.” She paused. “So you’ll do that for me?” It was unclear

whether she was asking or telling.

How could I say no? I really wanted to say no. I was

going to say no. I said yes.

“Oh, Cece, I knew I could count on you. It’s the

Holly View on Orange Drive, 1337 Orange Drive.”

I jotted down the address on the back of a Thai take-

out menu. When I got back home, I’d be ordering mee

krob for lunch. And unplugging the phone.

ACCORDING TO THE RUSTED directory posted out front,

Nancy Olsen lived in apartment 4B. I pushed the

buzzer a couple of times but didn’t get an answer. And I’d spent twenty whole minutes finding parking. Such is life. I was ready to pack it in when a middle-aged

woman loaded down with shopping bags approached.

She fumbled in her purse for her keys.

“Do you need a hand?”

“Oh, thank you.”

I held her things while she opened the gate.

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“I’m usually not much of a shopper, but they were

having a special on recycled envelopes.”

“I can never resist a special either,” I said, trying to be friendly.

“The cashier didn’t know what they were made of,

though.”

“What what was made of?” I asked, following her in.

“The recycled envelopes,” she said impatiently. “I’m

going to be licking them, after all. With my tongue.”

I had nothing whatsoever to add.

The Holly View was a classic fifties courtyard build-

ing, two stories, bougainvillea-draped, the apartments all surrounding a classic kidney-shaped pool. I could imagine Marilyn Monroe before she was Marilyn

Monroe holed up in a place like this, waiting for a call from the studio. A starlet living on cottage cheese and vodka.

The woman grabbed her envelopes and took off. I

followed the signs up to the second floor. Nancy’s

apartment was tucked into a corner dominated by a

massive clump of dead jasmine. Winter-flowering jas-

mine has a wonderful, elusive scent (unlike summer’s

night-blooming jasmine, which, if you ask me, reeks

like air freshener). But when it finishes flowering, the vines get choked with dry brown blossoms that don’t

fall off on their own. You’ve got to whack ’em off with a pair of hedge shears. I learned that from Javier, my genius gardener.

I knocked hopefully at Nancy’s door. No answer. I

knocked again. Nothing. I tried to peek into the front window, but the miniblinds were shut tight. Clarissa

was not going to be happy. But I’d done what I could

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do. I went back down the stairs, wondering if I should leave a note with the building manager.

It was quiet by the pool. An older man in a white

terry cloth robe was stretched out on a lounge chair, asleep with the morning paper at his feet. A young

woman wearing a black tank top and tartan minikilt

was seated opposite him, polishing her toenails green.

A heartwarming domestic scene.

“Excuse me?”

She looked up.

“Do you happen to be acquainted with Nancy Olsen?”

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m a friend of the family. Her mother is really worried about her. She hasn’t answered her phone in days.”

“I haven’t heard it ringing.”

“Why would you?”

“I’m Nancy’s neighbor. Three B.”

“Nice to meet you. So have you seen Nancy lately?”

“I’m out a lot.” She turned to the other foot, bored.

“Do you know what kind of car she drives? Maybe I

could check the parking lot.”

“What kind of car do
you
drive?”

“Forget it.” I started to go.

“That’s a very personal question.”

“Sorry.”

“I don’t think Nancy has a car.”

“How does she get around, then?”

“Maybe she takes the bus. Some of us actually do.

Anyway, in answer to your question, I think I saw her yesterday. In fact, I’m sure of it. She was standing right over there, smoking a cigarette.” She pointed to an ashtray underneath the No Lifeguard on Duty sign.

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“Well, great. Her mom is going to be really happy to

hear that.”

“Well, great.”

“Not about the cigarette, I mean. About her being

here.”

“Whatever.” The girl moved on to her bitten-up fin-

gernails. The old guy turned onto his side and started to snore.

“I’ll be leaving, then,” I said to no one in particular.

Right after I checked out the parking lot.

I’d taken a wild guess that the Holly View wasn’t too big on security. Maintenance either. I made a bit of a spectacle of myself on the way out, tripping over a

chipped piece of slate tile. After that, I sneaked back around to the alley running along the side of the building, and down into the underground garage, whose

electronic gates were—surprise—on the fritz.

It was dark and musty down there. The trash cans

were overflowing. A crumpled McDonald’s bag floated

idly toward the laundry room. I looked up. There were three or four bulbs hanging from the ceiling, all of

which needed changing, and in the corner, by the recycling bin, a single fluorescent light that flickered off and on, off and on.

The parking spaces were marked by apartment. I

looked around for 4B, my high heels clicking loudly on the oil-stained concrete. Most of the spaces were

empty. It was a Thursday. Everybody was probably

hard at work, like I should’ve been.

Two A drove an old but very nicely maintained Toy-

ota Celica. Maynard would’ve approved. Six A drove a

beat-up yellow van with a bumper sticker that read “I 40

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Brake for Spayed and Neutered Pets.” Had to be the envelope lady. And what do you know? The girl in the tartan minikilt didn’t take the bus. She drove a black VW

Bug so new it didn’t even have a license plate.

I stopped short in front of a green Honda Prelude. It was parked next to the minikilt’s VW. Nancy’s car—it

had to be. Was that good or bad? I stood there for a

minute, bewildered. I think it was bad. But not necessarily. It didn’t mean her body was sprawled lifeless on her living-room floor. Or that her head was in the washing machine, clunking around on the spin cycle. It was too quiet for that. The only thing I could hear was the buzz of the broken fluorescent light.

There were many possible explanations. Nancy

could be out of town. Or in town and hiding from her

mother. Maybe her car was in its parking place because Nancy enjoyed walking. The Holly View was conveniently located. Within a couple of blocks going east or west there were markets, movie theaters, bookstores,

restaurants. And nightclubs. The girl was a singer. An artist who sings, rather. Those types are unpredictable.

The driver’s-side door was unlocked. I looked to the

right, then to the left. No one down here but me. I’d just take a tiny peek and see if anything out of the ordinary jumped out at me. That was it. Then I was going home.

Getting back to work. Packing for the weekend. Calling Clarissa. Shit.

I opened the door as quietly as I could and slid in.

The car was a mess. There were half-drunk containers

of milky coffee in both cup holders, and the floor was covered with supermarket tabloids, the movie section

of last Sunday’s
L.A. Times,
an army blanket, candy wrappers. A rock-hard bagel down by the emergency

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brake. Nothing unusual. Except for the green leather

Filofax under the blanket.

People don’t just leave their Filofaxes in their cars.