by Susan Kandel
“I am. He’s just so…worshipful. And all that luscious hair.”
“Cece,” asked Lael, ever alert, “why should you be jealous? You’ve got Gambino.”
“Why do we always have to talk about men?” I snapped. “Can we please not talk about men for two seconds?”
“Good idea,” said Bridget, stopping dead in front of Maynard’s Caddy. “I think we’ve got more pressing concerns.”
7
At any hour, in any time zone, by any stretch of the imagination, four slashed tires qualified as a pressing concern.
No one spoke. We just stood around the car like mourners at a funeral.
“How will I explain this to Maynard?” I finally asked.
Bridget shook her head. “Somebody out there doesn’t like you, Cece. This is bad mojo.”
“Please, would you stop with the mojo?”
Lael smeared some Chapstick on her lips. “Who would do such a thing? This is crazy. Never in my life…Cece?” She was yelling at me now. “Cece! What are you doing? You’re going to get yourself killed!”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” I was standing half in the road, shouting and waving my arms back and forth like a lunatic. “Hey, hey, stop!” The black-and-white cop car tore past me at full speed. I turned around. “Did you see that? Unbelievable! He didn’t even look my way!”
“He was probably pursuing a felon. Come back here this instant.”
Bridget studied her fingernails, a practical woman at heart. “Call the auto club, and be done with it.”
Fred from Porter’s Automotive arrived in less than half an hour. Hot and dusty, we squeezed into the cabin of his truck. Fred was nice enough but his nonstop patter about wore me out. As we drove back to the garage, he complained about the juvenile delinquents who were terrorizing the area, shooting up windows, slashing tires, covering bus stops with graffiti. Then he lamented the good old days, before the gangs came in from Los Angeles. A digression on the nefarious influence of drugs followed. And when I foolishly mentioned the patrolman who’d ignored us earlier, he started in on police corruption, tax fraud, the right to bear arms, and his plans to go off the grid.
All that, plus four new tires, set me back a thousand dollars. I had now officially exceeded my Visa limit. But some months are like that.
We ate sour cream and onion CornNuts from the machine at Porter’s while Fred put on the tires.
“You ladies are damn lucky this car didn’t have any of those fancy whitewalls,” he said as he was finishing up. “Then you’d really have been in for it.”
“We should report this,” Lael said.
I crumpled up my empty bag of CornNuts and tossed it into the trash. “I know we should, but we have to get going.” I consulted my watch. It was close to three already, and we had to be at the conference hotel by four o’clock for the Chums’ wine and cheese party. I’d promised Clarissa we’d be there, and the way her life was going these days, I didn’t want to disappoint her.
Lael gave me one of her looks.
“Don’t do that. I tried to report it—you saw me. And you also saw how much the cops care about what happens.”
“That officer didn’t even see you.”
“Lael, you heard Fred. This place is crawling with rotten teenage kids. Do you really think anyone on the entire Cabazon police force is going to bother chasing them down for the sake of the three of us? They don’t like out-of-towners in the backwoods. Let’s just get out of here.”
“She’s right,” Bridget warned. “Remember Deliverance.”
Lael shrugged. “It’s your weekend, Cece.”
“And don’t you forget it.”
WE PULLED UP in front of the Wyndham Hotel on Indian Canyon Road at about ten after four. A huge, inflatable bottle of Captain Morgan’s Spiced Rum lay inexplicably on the asphalt.
The valet hurried over. He was wearing a red uniform with gold epaulets, and the sweat was pouring down his face.
“Oh, man. Glad you didn’t run that thing over. It just fell down. Jesus. The official sponsor. Well, it’s crazy around here today.”
That was an understatement. People were streaming in and out of the hotel, salsa music was blaring, and the smell of tortilla chips filled the air. A group of women wearing sun visors and tennis shorts brushed past us on their way inside, laughing uproariously.
“So much for cocktail attire,” Bridget said.
“Actually, I’m impressed,” I said.
Lael smoothed down her windblown hair. “About what?”
“That Nancy Drew can still reel ’em in.”
“You here for the party, ladies?” the valet asked, handing me a ticket.
I nodded.
“How long you going to be?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe an hour.”
“I’ll keep your car out front. It’s a beaut,” he said, letting out a whistle. “Very cherry.”
“Thanks.”
The lobby was a mob scene. We made our way back to the reception table where a smiling woman in a cowboy hat handed us each a tiny box of Whitman’s chocolates and a golf ball–shaped paperweight embossed with the American Airlines logo. More official sponsors, I supposed.
“Head straight out to the pool,” she said. “Things are just getting started.”
We followed some people who looked like they knew where they were going down the hall, past a pair of uniformed guards with headsets on.
“Those are the only men we’ve seen since we set foot in this place,” Lael whispered.
“Again with the men!” I said. “Who did you think would be at a Nancy Drew convention? Big, burly truck drivers? Sexy firemen?”
“Calm down,” said Lael, right before her mouth fell open.
Females—what seemed like hundreds of them, of every conceivable age, ethnicity, and body type—were packed into the pool area and, from the looks of it, having the time of their lives. The drinks were flowing, the beach balls were flying, the DJ was playing Cyndi Lauper.
“This is not what I expected,” Lael said, looking up at the Miller Lite banner silhouetted against the bright blue desert sky.
“Me neither,” said Bridget, stepping out of the way of a short Latina with tattoos covering every square inch of exposed flesh, of which there was a lot.
I stared at the swimming pool, dumbfounded. “The Chums are playing Marco Polo.”
“That’s Marcia Polo,” said an older woman who came up behind me. She was wearing a tangerine-colored sarong and matching visor. “Do you ladies need beers? There are burgers on the grill.”
“We’re fine for now, thanks,” I said, “but maybe you could help me with something.”
“After my last juice fast, the first thing I ate was a hamburger,” said Bridget dreamily. “With blue cheese and onions.”
“I love women who eat,” the woman said, looking Bridget up and down. “Nice outfit.”
“As I was saying,” I continued, “I’m looking for someone. Clarissa Olsen?”
“If she’s hot, I’m looking for her, too,” she said, laughing.
“Excuse me, are you here for the Nancy Drew fan convention?”
“Nancy Drew? I loved Nancy Drew, are you kidding?” She turned serious. “Nancy Drew was un-fucking-believable. The perfect chameleon. She could fit in anywhere, pretend to be anything or anyone—throw on a wig, join the circus—you never knew who she really was. And her sidekicks, oh, I loved them, too. Bess was always eating, god bless her. And George Fayne—an athletic-looking girl with close-cropped hair and a boy’s name. Let’s just say been there, done that!”
I turned to Lael and Bridget. “We need to go back to the lobby and find the person in charge.”
“What about my hamburger?” Bridget asked.
I took her arm. “Now.”
The woman in the cowboy hat was too busy passing out freebies to pay much attention to our queries, but the soft-spoken clerk behind the reservations desk sent us up to the third floor.
&nbs
p; The elevator doors opened onto thick pile carpet and the oily tones of Barry Manilow. This was more like it. We followed the arrows around a couple of corners to the Oak Salon, which must’ve made a great setting for a bar mitzvah back in the seventies, assuming the bar mitzvah boy’s mother was into mauve and crystal chandeliers.
I looked around the room. The walls were covered from floor to ceiling in mirrored tiles, which created the chilling effect of an infinitely regressing gallery of Chums. I wiped my sweaty hands on my jeans. To my horror, I realized I was nervous. But that was insane. Why should I be nervous? There were no more than sixty women in the Oak Salon. Sixty sensibly dressed women, not a sarong in the bunch. And they were out to have a good time, not to torment me. I had to get over myself.
The welcome table had been abandoned, but I spied a red marker with a stubbed tip and a pile of blank name tags. I scrawled my name on one and slapped it onto my T-shirt.
“I’m going to find Clarissa. Get yourselves something to eat.”
Bridget and Lael headed toward a towering mountain of minibagels. I wandered over to the book display, then to a long table covered with Nancy Drew Christmas ornaments and Nancy Drew slumber party kits. The Mystery of the Fire Dragon kit included fortune cookies and a paper cheongsam. The Bungalow Mystery kit included two sets of handcuffs and a blindfold. Pretty kinky, if you asked me. As I left the table a tall, very pregnant woman wearing a Chums 1997 Convention sweatshirt and a blue wraparound skirt snapped my picture and handed me a book.
“Will you sign it?” she asked, peering at my chest. “Ms. Caruso, is it?”
“Call me Cece.”
“I’m Tabitha.”
“You really want me to autograph your book?”
“I do it at every convention. I buy a Nancy Drew book that’s missing pages or something and get everybody to sign it. Then I have a record of who was there.”
“That’s so sweet,” I said, writing my name across the ripped title page of a 1944 edition of The Whispering Statue. “I never actually read this one. How is it?”
“Togo, Nancy’s little terrier, appears for the first time in this book, so it’s a favorite of mine,” she replied. “I can’t have animals because I’m a flight attendant and I’m always traveling, but I love them like crazy! I’m sort of an expert on them,” she added, blushing a deep shade of crimson.
“Animals in general?”
“No, in Nancy Drew. Snowball the cat, Nancy’s white Persian, appears for the first time in The Mystery of the Brass-Bound Trunk, original text, not revised text, I mean. And Nancy has a horse named Black Prince in one of the spin-off series, number sixty-six, Race Against Time. But that’s about it. I think Hannah must’ve been allergic. Or didn’t need the extra aggravation.”
“Hannah Gruen, Nancy Drew’s housekeeper?” I asked.
“Uh-huh,” she said, taking back her book.
“Who’s allergic?” demanded a potbellied woman standing behind us. “Because I’ve got a shitload of antihistamines if anybody needs them.”
“We were just talking about Hannah.”
“Oh, Hannah,” she said.
“How’re you doing, Rita?” asked Tabitha.
“Fair, Tabby Cat.”
“My online persona,” Tabitha explained.
I recognized the name from her postings on the Listserv.
“Sleuth or Virgin Sleuth?” Rita demanded of me.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s Clarissa’s concoction. Fresca with or without gin. Over by the minibagels.”
“Don’t forget the maraschino cherry,” Tabby Cat said shyly.
“I’m not thirsty right now,” I replied. “But thanks.”
“So it’s official,” said Rita. “I’m getting divorced.”
“Oh, no! What about your collection?” Tabitha turned to me. “Rita and her husband—ex-husband-to-be, I guess—have an amazing Stratemeyer collection: Bomba the Jungle Boy, the Motor Boys, the Campfire Girls, Honey Bunch. Who wrote the Honey Bunch books again?”
“Mildred Wirt Benson wrote the Honey Bunch books as Helen Louise Thorndyke,” I answered. What a pedant.
“‘Honey Bunch is a dainty, thoughtful little girl, and to know her is to take her to your heart at once,’” Rita recited.
I had to concede defeat.
“You know,” said Rita, patting Tabby Cat’s tummy, “you could name your baby Honey Bunch.”
“What if it’s a boy?”
I turned to Rita. “Why don’t you collect Nancy Drew?”
“I hate Nancy Drew,” she said in a low voice. “But don’t rat me out.”
“How can you hate Nancy Drew?”
“Haven’t you ever noticed how selfish that girl is? She’s helpful, but what a control freak! She’s always got to have her own way, and to hell with everybody else.”
“Now that you mention it—”
“Excuse me, I’m not finished. To hell with everybody else’s legitimate concerns. They’re supposed to stuff them just like she does. And danger? So what if she puts everybody around her in danger? One inappropriate response after another.” She shook her head. “Nancy Drew is a bundle of defense mechanisms wrapped up in a pretty package.” Then she looked right at me. “Sound familiar?”
I didn’t answer. I got away by pretending I wanted to look at the Nancy Drew sunglass cases.
Lael and Bridget were about done. “Let’s go check out our new vacation home!” said Bridget. “The cream cheese is gone.”
“Almost,” I said. “I love you guys.”
“Big smooch,” said Bridget.
“Cece Caruso! You’re here!” said a voice I recognized.
“Clarissa!” I replied, turning around.
So this was Clarissa Olsen.
“You are not what I envisioned,” I said without thinking.
“Neither are you.”
“What were you expecting?” I asked, sweeping my index fingers under my eyes and trying to rub off the mascara that had melted somewhere around Cabazon.
“Certainly not someone so young and so gorgeous.”
This woman had absolutely missed her calling. With those lines and that sleek blond bob she was meant to be a network news anchor. I half expected her to shove a microphone in my face and ask me for a comment.
“Clarissa, these are my friends Lael and Bridget,” I said.
“So nice to meet you. And this,” she said, gesturing to a girl whose back was toward us, “is my daughter, Nancy Olsen.”
Nancy turned around.
Life can be so strange.
Because the girl I was looking at—Clarissa Olsen’s daughter, Nancy—was the same girl I’d talked to at the Holly View Apartments, the one who’d claimed to be Nancy Olsen’s next-door neighbor.
“Nice to meet you, Cece,” she said, sweet as pie.
“Love the tartan minikilt,” I said. “You’re some kind of original.”
Her mother beamed.
8
And speaking of Nancy Drew’s long-suffering beau, Ned, why do you think his last name is Nickerson? Nickers-on, get it? The poor sap.”
A man wearing a name tag that read Big Bad Sebastien was putting the moves on Lael. She took it with her usual good cheer, smiling graciously as he droned on.
“One more minute,” I promised, squeezing her arm.
“Cece,” Lael said, “Sebastien here is a charter member of the Chums.”
“Sebastien-with-an-e Kister. Pleased to know you. I publish a newsletter out of Detroit.” He handed me a somewhat grimy copy of Big Bad Sebastien’s Super Dicks and Bloodhound Babes. “Only nineteen ninety-nine a year. I write the whole thing and I’m witty as hell.”
“Sebastien has also explained what was going on downstairs.”
“Lesbians!” he cried. “Twenty thousand of them! Headquartered here! The Dinah Shore Classic! One weekend a year the girls take over the city!”
Lael and I looked at each other and cracked up.
“Clariss
a about wet her pants when she realized what was happening, but I say, bring it on! I’m crashing the grand ballroom tomorrow night if you ladies want to join me. They’re turning the place into Emerald City. There’s going to be a yellow brick road that’ll start at the entrance and go all the way through to the party. I’ve seen them setting up. Green lights everywhere! The Munchkins are an erotic belly-dancing troupe from Des Moines!”
“Cece, don’t we have that thing we have to get to? Isn’t it starting right now? That thing?”
“Give me one more minute, Lael,” I said. “Please.”
I knew I was pushing it, but I had a couple of questions that needed answering.
“What, are you worried I can’t handle the both of you?” I heard Sebastien saying as I stepped into the hall.
Nancy Olsen was standing out there, puffing on a cigarette.
“That’s against the law,” I said. “And it’ll kill you.”
She took a long drag. “I’ve already got a mother.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
“She makes her presence felt, doesn’t she?”
“Listen, I don’t know what’s going on between you two. That’s for you to work out. But I don’t appreciate being made a fool of.”
Nancy dropped her cigarette into a cup of cranberry juice someone had left behind. “Sorry.”
“That’s it? Sorry?”
“That’s it.”
“Well, that’s not good enough.”
“You were in the way.”
“Of what?”
“My fucking life,” she said, shoving her chopped-off red hair out of her eyes. “Do you think it’s easy having Clarissa for a mother?”
“Do you think it’s easy having you for a daughter?”
She looked up at me with tear-filled eyes. “I suppose not.”
Well, shoot. I hadn’t meant to make her cry. The girl was decked out in full punk regalia but still had her baby fat.
“My mother had all sorts of plans for me, too,” I said, leaning against the wall. “I was supposed to become Miss New Jersey, maybe even Miss America. But then I sort of rushed into marriage. I blew it for her.”
“Were you pregnant?”