Not A Girl Detective (7 page)

“We have to clean up this mess. It’ll take us all night.

And your cookie sheets suck, if I remember properly.”

“You could spin gold from dross.”

“Cece.”

“You put Sweet Lady Jane to shame.” Sweet Lady

Jane was the best bakery in L.A.

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“All right. You can stop it, Cece. You win. But we are having a long talk about you and Gambino.”

“We have all night to talk about my tragedy of a love life.”

“Your love life is not a tragedy. You are the tragedy.”

“That’s a lovely thing to say.”

“Where do you keep the brown sugar?”

I opened the door to the pantry and pulled out the box.

“There’s flour, baking soda, and vanilla in there, too.”

“I’ll take care of it,” she said, pushing me away. She’d found an apron I had no idea I owned, and put it on.

I stared at her, bemused. She had a permanent post-

coital glow. She glowed when she was paying bills.

When she was scrubbing toilets. “Lael. How come you

look like a Stepford wife? When I wear an apron, I look like a fishwife.”

“Go tidy,” she said distractedly.

I had a couple of phone calls to make first.

Clarissa was semihappy about my semihappy news.

Of course, she’d been calling her daughter all day and had left dozens more messages, and now, much to her

consternation, Nancy’s machine wouldn’t accept any

more. I encouraged her to give her daughter a little

space and assured her that all would be well, that Nancy would be waiting for her at the hotel tomorrow in Palm Springs. Then Clarissa asked about my speech.

“I think it might surprise you.”

She detected the hesitation in my voice. “I’m not one for surprises, Cece.”

“In a good way, I mean.” And who could possibly

blame me for jettisoning “The Changing Demograph-

ics of River Heights”? I didn’t want to put all those good women to sleep. I still had to clarify some details N O T

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in my own mind, though. How exactly did Edgar’s nude

portrait of Grace Horton change things? Why had

Grace posed in the buff in the first place? Money? Unlikely. A sexy painting by Russell Tandy, a little-known illustrator, would never have fetched much. And would have jeopardized Grace’s career as Nancy Drew. For a

lark? Perhaps. Because she felt straitjacketed by her role as Saint Nancy? Anyone would have. And what

about Grace and Tandy? Were things between them

purely business? You know what they say about artists and models.

Clarissa seemed to be feeling a little better by the

time we hung up.

Mitchell Honey was another story.

He picked up on the third ring. No, Edgar had not

shown up, nor had Jake, but, amazingly, it was no

longer my fault. And no longer my business. Mitchell

was a very busy man with dozens of things to take care of, and why was I keeping him on the phone? These

were private affairs, after all. Edgar and Jake were

probably out whooping it up somewhere, and he was no

longer doing them the courtesy of freaking out. Fine

with me.

I spent the next hour or so doing the laundry, making up the bed, putting things back where they belonged, and finding spots in various closets and drawers for the stuff that was left over. Then I took a long hot shower. By the time I emerged with a towel wrapped around my hair, the locksmith was gone and the kitchen was spotless. There were wildflowers from the garden in a vase, Lael’s signature cookies had been arranged on a plate, and there was a carton of mee krob on the counter, along with some

spicy chicken coconut soup and pork with mint leaves.

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Lael pushed a strand of long blond hair out of her

eyes and smiled at me.

It would’ve been nice to have had a sister, but a best friend was just as good.

6

We couldn’t see Bridget. Her entire body was ob-

scured by five antique Louis Vuitton steamer trunks.

But we could hear her.

“You ladies said nine o’clock on the nose. You’re

late. I’ve been waiting out here for twenty minutes.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “I warned you about this. You can-

not bring those things with you. Who do you think you are, a French
contessa
?”

“If I were French, I’d be a
comtesse
.”

“Morning, Bridget,” said Lael.

“Morning, Lael,” said Bridget.

Lael pushed the top two trunks aside. “That is a fan-

tastic outfit you’ve got on, Bridget.”

The woman was encased in skintight black leather,

the star of a blaxploitation film. I was as pure as the driven snow in a white head scarf, white lace-up mini-caftan with long bell sleeves, and white-rimmed Jackie O. sunglasses—not that anyone had taken notice.

“Thank you,” Bridget said, pouting. She scrutinized

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Lael’s stained lavender painter’s pants and puffy-

sleeved smock.

“Your outfit,” she conceded, “has hippie flair.”

Lael waited a beat. She had four kids and knew what

she was doing.

“I used to be a hippie,” Bridget said. “I lived on nuts and didn’t want to be burdened with worldly posses-sions.”

Lael waited another beat.

“I guess I
could
leave some of my luggage at home.”

Lael shrugged noncommittally.

“People expect me to look fantastic.”

Lael clucked sympathetically.

“No time off for good behavior.”

Lael nodded sagely.

“I’m exhausted.”

Lael smiled victoriously.

We helped Bridget haul three of the trunks back in-

side and the other two into the backseat.

“Should I sit back here with my luggage?” Bridget

asked in a small voice.

“That sounds like a good idea. And I hope you’re

hungry. Cece and I have packed a hamper with all sorts of goodies—little lobster sandwiches, poached pears,

cucumber salad.”

“What about Diet Coke? And nacho cheese Dori-

tos?” Bridget undid the top button of her pants.

“It’s a road trip! That’s what convenience stores are for! And we love our convenience stores, right, Cece?”

“Right!” I said, getting into the spirit of things.

“Right?” I asked Bridget, catching her eye in the

rearview mirror.

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“Right,” she said, peeling off her motorcycle jacket.

“No leather! No juice fasts!” And we were off.

We got on the 10 at Overland. Rush hour was pretty

much over so it wasn’t too bad. Downtown was a blur

of skyscrapers and smog. From there we sped through

the Chinese suburbs of Alhambra and Monterey Park

and a string of towns whose names escaped me but that appeared to consist exclusively of places to buy consumer electronics. Lael used the bathroom at the

biggest Toyota dealership in the world. We passed a

garbage mountain with a flag flying on top in Ontario.

We listened to jazz. We stopped at a 7-Eleven.

“Isn’t Riverside somewhere around here?” Lael

asked.

“What’s in Riverside?” I asked, looking up from my

cherry Big Gulp.

“Can we listen to the
Saturday Night Fever
sound track now?” Bridget interrupted.

“Just the most revered fruit tree in the entire United States,” Lael said. Then she gave me the look I knew so well, the one that meant business.

We got off the freeway at the next exit and followed

the arrows toward the center of town.

“I found out about it researching recipes for orange

poppy seed minimuffins on the Internet,” Lael said.

“I’ve never heard of orange poppy seed minimuffins.

Don’t you mean lemon? We need a map. Can you check

the glove compartment?”

“Here.” She handed me some crumpled shreds of pa-

per that used to be a map but currently resembled a

napkin.

“I can’t do this when I’m driving. You figure out

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where we’re going, Bridget,” I said, shoving the mess back at her.

“This tree,” Lael continued, “is one of two from

which all navel oranges in California descended. It

came here from Brazil in about 1875 and created an orange empire. The navel is the noblest of all citrus.”

“It’s marked with an orange,” Bridget said after a

few minutes. “I think this is it.” She handed the map back to me, poking furiously at a small stain somewhere in southern Nevada.

I sighed. “I think we’ll stop at the closest gas station to be sure.”

The man at the gas station studied us disapprovingly, then directed us to the corner of Arlington and Magno-lia. We headed that way.

Bridget was singing, “If I can’t have you, I don’t

want nobody, baby!”

Lael was trying to rip a loose thread off the bottom of her smock.

I was trying my best, but I suspected sabotage. From

all quarters.

“Stop, Cece! There it is!” Bridget cried. “Across the street from Donut Tyme!”

“You should trust your friends,” Lael said, altogether too smugly.

The most revered fruit tree in the entire United States was located smack in the middle of a commercial district, directly in front of a combination day spa and dental office. Donut Tyme had good parking, so we left the Caddy there and walked across the street.

The tree was surrounded by a dusty, padlocked gate

with dangerous-looking spikes running across the top.

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“So where’s the armed guard?” asked Bridget, who

was munching away on a cinnamon cruller.

“It’s the honor system,” Lael said.

“They look awfully tasty,” I said.

Bridget narrowed her eyes. “Stay away from my

cruller.”

“I mean the oranges. Look at those smooth deep-

orange rinds.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Lael said.

“Seedless, too.”

“I can’t take you anywhere.”

“Bridget, give me a boost.”

“But those women are watching.”

A couple of day spa clients were lingering out front, gingerly touching each other’s freshly peeled face.

“They aren’t paying attention. C’mon.”

“This is a historic landmark,” Lael said, reading the plaque. “We are going to get arrested.”

Bridget didn’t like that idea. “You really want old

fruit, Cece? There are probably worms in there, or fruit flies. You can have the rest of my cruller.”

The fence was about six feet high, but there was a

leafy branch extending over the top, just within reach.

It was dripping with fruit.

“I can stand on this bench. I don’t even need your

help.”

Looking back, I wish someone had warned me about

that bench. It must’ve been there as long as the tree, because the minute I stood up on it the whole damn thing collapsed, propelling me straight toward one of those rusty spikes.

“Omigod!” Bridget shrieked at Lael, who was

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standing twenty feet away, pretending she didn’t know us.

“Cece!” Lael raced over to me.

“I’m fine,” I said, picking myself up off the ground.

“And I got an orange!”

“You’re not fine. You’re bleeding.”

I looked down at my dress, which was ripped across

the front, revealing a scratch on my stomach. And also my oldest underwear. My mother used to warn me

about that.

Lael took my arm. “That must hurt. Let’s go inside

and get you fixed up.”

After complimenting me on my teeth, the people in

the day spa/dental office cleaned off my cut, which

looked worse than it was, bandaged me up, and gave me a couple of safety pins to hold my dress together. I figured I’d change in the bathroom at Donut Tyme.

We walked back across the street, sharing the orange.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Lael asked.

How exactly was I supposed to answer that? The last

twenty-four hours had gone by in a fog. Had two

strangers really broken into my house, or was that a

dream?

“I’m made of strong stuff. You know that.” I wiped

my sticky fingers on my dress, popped open the trunk, and reached for my suitcase.

“So what’s that license plate supposed to say any-

way?” Bridget asked. “Smutty or smoothie?”

“Neither,” I said. “Smooth, as in ‘smooth-talking

ladies’ man.’ ”

“Give me a break.”

“Lael,” I said, looking up, “did you open the hamper?”

“No. Why?”

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“It’s nothing. The latch must’ve come undone.” I

closed it, then opened it again, puzzled. “That’s weird.

The sandwiches aren’t in here. We must have left them on the counter.”

“Impossible. I put them in there myself. Let me see

that.” She rifled through the hamper, frowning. “I guess I didn’t. What a lamebrain. I must’ve left them on the counter.”

I opened my suitcase and pulled out an Aerosmith

T-shirt and my oldest, softest jeans. “I’ll just be a sec.”

“Wait,” Bridget said loudly.

“What is it?”

“What happened to my Louis Vuitton trunks?”

I looked into the backseat. “They’re right where we

left them. Both of them. What’s the problem?”

“They’re there, but not where we left them.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked slowly.

“They were behind the passenger seat before. Now

they’re behind your seat, Cece.”

“They must’ve shifted when we were driving.”