Queen of the Oddballs (5 page)

RIGHT ON! Greg’s proving to be a worthy co-conspirator. I look expectantly at Ralph.

“Oh man, it’s incredible,” he answers. “One day she’s sewing curtains for me, the next day she’s a superstar.”

He motions to the Indian print curtains hanging on four windows. I stare
at them, speechless. Carole has touched that fabric, sewn them, stitch by stitch. Hell, she might have written “Tapestry” while making those very curtains. It makes sense, doesn’t it???

“Ralph, could I have another glass of lemonade?” I am parched from the thrill of it all. But damn, Ralph doesn’t give us any other clues. Instead, we drink so much lemonade that by the time we move on to Carole’s guitarist Danny Kootch’s house and launch into the “could we use your bathroom” ploy, I REALLY DO HAVE TO PEE!!

DAY #4

Thursday, June 24

I know I haven’t written in here for a bit but even though we spend every day in Laurel Canyon, there really hasn’t been anything much to report. More soon. SWEAR.

DAY #15

Monday, July 5

We lost a few days cuz of Fourth of July weekend. But for the past few weeks Greg and I have used similar ruses to get into the rest of Carole’s band members’ houses. We’ve seen a ton of paisley-material-covered couches (popular!), heard a ton of stories about the music scene in L.A., and drunk ten tons of lemonade—both pink and yellow. We even found Frank Zappa’s house and also met Joni Mitchell’s maid!!!!! (Remember it was Carole’s babysitter who became Little Eva and had a hit with Carole’s song “The Locomotion.” Ya never know if Joni’s maid will become a star, too!)

But it’s Day #15 and we’re no closer to meeting Carole in person than we were at the start. And I’m beginning to totally bum out.

Greg and I are having our usual breakfast this morning—Almond Joy bars and barbecue potato chips—in the parking lot of the Country Store, when I break the news. “I think we should just forget about THE KING CASE.”

“Dollllllll, what else do we have to do this summer?”

“More than just wandering aimlessly around Laurel Canyon. I just can’t do this any more without making any progress.” I put the bag of potato chips to my mouth and shake it, catching the last of the barbecue crumbs. “I’m gonna go get a Dr Pepper. Want one?”

“Why not.”

And there, just as I’m about to call it quits, throw in the towel, say “Adios, Amigo,” Fate steps into the tiny, four-aisle store. There he is, right in the frozen food section picking out TV Dinners (who knew Fate ate TV Dinners?!!) It’s Charlie Larkey, Carole’s husband (#2)!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I pretend to examine some granola while keeping an eye on him. When he’s at the checkout counter, I nonchalantly walk back outside.

“Come on!” I grab Greg just as Charlie strolls out, carrying his groceries. As he puts them in the backseat of his dark blue VW Bug, I walk up to him.

“Excuse me—are you going up the canyon? Can we hitch a ride?”

“Sure, hop in.”

I hold the front seat up so Greg can climb in back, then I sit next to Charlie. He’s way more handsome in person than in his pictures. I can see what Carole sees in him—even if he does sort of have a big beak. I tremble just knowing that Carole has actually ridden in this very car. Hell, she might have written “I Feel the Earth Move” in this car. It makes sense, doesn’t it???

I need a glass of lemonade.

“Where are you guys going?” Charlie asks.

Since he’s heading north, I take my chances. “Up Lookout.”

“So am I,” he says. I slip my hand into the backseat and squeeze Greg’s leg. “Cool,” I reply ever so casually.

“Where up Lookout?”

Shit. “Uh…well…um….” I stammer.

“We’re early meeting some friends, so we were just gonna walk around up there to kill some time,” Greg chimes in. “Wherever you’re going is cool. We’ll walk from there.”

I could kiss Greg’s feet, except he’s wearing his $13.00 sandals from Tijuana and his feet are totally gross—all sweaty and dirty.

When Charlie turns up Wonderland, I am so tempted to confess our un
dying devotion and adoration for his wife and then ask questions that only he can answer: “What does she eat for breakfast?” “What time of the day does she write songs?” “Do her eyes close when she’s laughing?” But I keep my cool.

Charlie pulls up to a curb and parks on the street in front of a house that’s hidden by tall, thick bushes. The air smells like Froot Loops, all sweet and sugary, pink and purple. I see a For Sale sign hanging on a white post over the curb.

“This is as far as I’m going,” Charlie says as he jostles the gears so the car won’t roll down the steep hill. We jump out and say, maybe a little too enthusiastically, “Thank you soooooo much for the ride!”

“Sure. No problem.”

He disappears behind the tall, bushy bushes and we wait anxiously, hoping to hear his wife greet him at the door. But we don’t hear anything. DAMN! When we’re sure the coast is clear, we jump up and down and hug each other—not in a spin-the-bottle, seven-minutes-in-heaven kind of a way, but more like Maxwell Smart and Agent 99.

“Can you believe it?” I squeal.

“Damn right,” Greg cries. He swaggers over to the mailbox and peeks inside while I stand guard.

“Check this out.” He hands me an envelope addressed to Carole Larkey. My heart stops. I sort through some more mail until I come across something shiny.

“Pay dirt.” I show Greg a letter from the Department of Motor Vehicles. You know how they send those key chains with a mini version of your license plate? Well, that small black-and-yellow plate is shining through the envelope’s clear plastic window, callin’ out to us.

I know this isn’t for Charlie’s car. Any competent spy would have recorded his license plate in her case book the second she got out of his car (812 BRD).

This license plate key chain has to be for Carole: 545 APC.

We’re in business. Now we’ll just wait until we see her car parked in front of the house or in the driveway.

We sit quietly for about an hour. The only sounds are from three cawing crows circling above and the loud tick of my wristwatch—the one with the caricature of “Tricky Dick” Nixon (BOO, HISS!) that I picked out when I was
visiting Nanny in Columbus, Ohio, and she took me to Lazarus department store and let me pick out any one thing.

“Shit, it’s already four fifty-five,” I shriek.

We tear ass outta there, flying down Wonderland Avenue, turning onto Lookout, and running down Laurel Canyon, the momentousness of our day’s accomplishment carrying us down the hill in record time.

Mom’s waiting in the parking lot of the store. “Any luck?” she asks like she always does when she picks us up. With all the mystery books she reads, I think Mom has a covert detective streak and is living vicariously through THE KING CASE.

“Yes, today we had a lot of luck,” I proudly state.

DAY #16

Tuesday, July 6

Bright and early this morning, we return to the house on Wonderland. All day we wait for Carole, for 545 APC.

DAY #17

Wednesday, July 7

We return the next day…

DAY #18–DAY #25

Thursday, July 8–Thursday, July 15

…and the next, for a whole week. A few people traipse in and out of the house, but Carole is nowhere in sight. In the afternoon, we’re sitting on the curb across from the house when Greg announces, “You were right. This is a bust. Let’s just forget about it and go to the beach.”

“What? But we’re so close! Maybe she’s just out on tour or something.”

“In her car?” Greg slumps down and leans back against some neon purple bougainvillea.

“You can’t give up now,” I beg.

“Why not? You almost did last week.”

“Yeah, but then we got a break. We’re at her house now, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, but she’s not.”

“Just give me one more day. I’ll get another break in the case, I promise.”

“How?”

“I don’t know…. One more day.”

“All right.” Greg sighs.

DAY #26

Friday, July 16

Early this morning I ask Mom to take me to the library next to the car wash on San Vicente. I have an idea. If it doesn’t work, THE KING CASE could be over and done with TODAY!

At 8:45 a.m., MY IDEA PAYS OFF!!!!!!! I find a two-year-old phone book with Carole Larkey’s address (on Wonderland) and…TA DA! Her phone number!!!! When we pick up Greg, I proudly flap the number in front of him.

“So?” Greg isn’t at all excited.

“DUH!! We go do something else and just keep calling her. When she answers, we’ll know she’s there, and then we’ll hurry up to her house,” I say confidently.

The only fool in my foolproof plan is me! I haven’t discussed any of this with anyone else, namely our chauffeur.

“Whoa, Hill, I have a lot of things to do,” my mom says, pulling over to the curb. “I’ll drop you off anywhere you want and pick you up, but, sorry, I can’t drive you kids around all day.”

SHIT! I sit in painful silence, looking at my partner in crime, who’s about to bail. The trying-to-convince tactic hasn’t worked at all, so I switch gears. I say softly, using big, sad, Keane-painting eyes, “Can we just give it a few more days? Pllllleeeeeeaase?”

My Keane eyes win.

So for the zillionth time we hike up the hill to Carole’s house on Wonder-
land. And as if I had gotten on my knees and prayed for a break, for the first time in weeks there is actually some activity at the house!!!! A nicely dressed middle-aged couple is leaving. And just as they drive away, a car slows down, pulls over, and parks in front. A man with big, frizzy hair (not as big as my brother Howard’s hair!!) steps out, then disappears behind Carole’s bushes. We hear the front door open and close.

“What do you think is going on?” I whisper.

Greg shrugs, disinterested. “Not a clue.”

And then suddenly, it all makes sense: why Carole hasn’t been around. Why we never see 545 APC or 812 BRD parked in front. It’s a sign. Right there in front of our faces. Literally. It says Open House.

DUH!!!!!!!!!! I CAN’T BELIEVE WE’VE BEEN SO STUPID!!! We saw a For Sale sign there on Day #15 and never put it together. What kind of detectives are we? We should turn in our badges right here and now. We’ll never be as good as Mannix, McCloud, McMillan, OR Wife!! Carole’s probably already moved. We’ll have to start all over, and I know Greg won’t go for that. Shit. I pull myself together.

“Come on, let’s go in. We’ll pretend we’re prospective buyers.”

“What?” Greg looks at me like I’m cracked. “Like anyone’s gonna believe that? We’re fourteen!”

“You have any other bright ideas?” We’re getting real testy with each other now. “At least we can see where she’s been living. Will you just stop being so crabby and come in with me?”

“Me, crabby? What about you?”

I feel my bottom lip begin to curl just like my dad’s. “Can we discuss this later?”

When we walk into the house, we see that it’s empty; shimmering hardwood floors and pristine white walls are the only remnants of the previous owners. Crap.

“Hi, may I help you?” a perky, balding Realtor in a beige suit asks.

“Yes, we’re interested in the house.” I coyly loop my arm through my fake husband/boyfriend/roommate’s arm. I know that Carole is pregnant and expecting her third child, so I take a gamble. “Except we’re looking for something
a bit bigger. We have a large family. Is that why the previous owners are selling?”