by Susan Kandel
“I wouldn’t say that.” Nancy had her mother’s ferocity. She was ferocious to the bone.
“When I started kindergarten I was really scared. I thought at the end of the day they wouldn’t give me back to my mother because my hair was so curly and hers was so straight. I thought no one would believe I belonged to her.” She gave a little laugh. “Wishful thinking.”
I picked up another picture. Tandy and Grace are standing on either side of an easel. They are in a studio, with spilled paint on the floor and dozens of drawings pinned to the walls. The drawings are too small, too faint to make out. The painting on the easel is not. It is Edgar’s missing painting. Blue Nancy Drew.
“I had this one blown up and cropped,” Nancy explained. “For my show. But my mother wasn’t supposed to see it, not ever.”
My gaze moved from Nancy back to Grace, standing there next to Tandy, but I couldn’t see anything there—nothing in her eyes, nothing in her smile. She had to have loved the painting. Who wouldn’t want to be seen as that kind of beautiful? But why, then, had she let the painting slip away? Had she sold it long ago, needing money? Had she given it to an admirer? Had she tossed it in the garbage, thrown it out the window, or just walked away from it, sick to death of looking at herself?
The last picture is of Grace in the studio, with the painting on the easel in front of her. But this time there are two men there. The first has his arm around her slim waist. Tandy again. The second is standing behind her, his hands covering her eyes, his chin resting on her shoulder. He is wearing what looks like a crown of laurel leaves. He is smiling, and his mustache seems like it is smiling, too. It is long and curled at the ends, as thin and spindly as if it had been drawn on with a pencil.
“It can’t be,” I said in disbelief.
“What can’t be?” God, I wish I could smoke in here.
But it is. The second man is Salvador Dalí.
WHEN I GOT HOME I went straight out to the office and started pawing through the mess on my desk. Notes and scraps and abandoned outlines and cryptic messages to myself I’d jotted down upon waking and crumpled photocopies and balled-up mistakes, and there it was. The very piece of paper.
“Here you go,” read the memo scrawled on top. “No charge. Just keep me updated on your project.” It was from the publisher of an obscure journal called Yellow-back Library. It’d taken me weeks to locate him. A librarian at the Society of Illustrators in New York had tipped me off to an article she thought he’d run back in the early eighties on Russell Haviland Tandy. She’d had a good memory.
The article was very useful. There was lots of personal information. Though he’d become almost totally deaf at the age of fifteen as a result of double pneumonia, Tandy had been a fine musician—a trumpet soloist and band director. Fond of alcohol and tobacco, he was known to have visited relatives carrying a suitcase filled only with handkerchiefs and bottles of gin. Prior to his work on children’s books, he’d worked as a commercial artist out of his studio in New York City. His first regular employment was in 1917 as cover artist for packages containing Butterick sewing patterns. He was soon doing catalog ads for Sears, Montgomery Ward, and JCPenney, all during the twenties. His sons remember visits paid to their father by Edward Stratemeyer. Their friendship, plus Tandy’s reputation, led to his being hired as staff artist for the publishing firms Grosset & Dunlap and Cupples & Leon. His work for those and other companies publishing works supplied by Stratemeyer, most memorable among them the Nancy Drew mysteries, lasted from 1929 to 1949.
And here was the good part. It had slipped my mind until now. Tandy was always up to something. The incorrigible type. Obstreperous. Loved a challenge. During the thirties he’d taken part in an art competition to see which artist could produce the best piece of work within a four-hour period. Among the contestants were himself, Norman Rockwell—the Norman Rockwell—and a favorite drinking buddy of theirs, an eccentric Spaniard enjoying great success in his adopted home-town of New York.
Salvador Dalí.
Salvador Dalí was Russell Tandy’s drinking buddy, his sidekick, his partner in crime.
27
The thing about mind-bombs is they generate an awful lot of noise. I needed quiet. I needed caffeine. And I needed to find out about Jake. Salvador Dalí had been dead for a long time. Russell Tandy, too. They could wait a little longer.
I called Hattie. She was sweet, but there was nothing to report.
“Well, no news is good news, right?”
“I’m afraid that isn’t the case here, dear.”
“What do you mean?”
“We would have liked to have seen some progress by now.”
“There’s been no progress?”
“No. But we mustn’t give up. Things can change at any moment.”
Even she didn’t sound like she believed it. Not a good sign. Neither was the sound of the doorbell, which normally buoyed my spirits even when it was only Javier needing me to move my car so he could bring the trash forward on pickup day. Today there was a nasty, tinny undertone in there I’d never heard before. Another thing that needed fixing. And that wasn’t the half of it.
Standing on my doorstep were four people, only one of whom I was happy to see. And in the company of the other three, he didn’t look all that appealing.
“Peter.”
“Hi, Cece. Sorry to bother you at this hour.”
“It’s only six. Not exactly my bedtime.”
The look he gave me was so pained I almost regretted my smart mouth.
“You remember Detectives Dunphy and Lasarow, from Palm Springs, don’t you?”
It was an ambush. “Of course. Come in.” I swept the myriad items on the couch over to one corner, along with several fur coats’ worth of cat and dog hair. It still wasn’t very inviting, but it was the best I could do on short notice.
“Sit down, please.” Nobody did. “Would anyone like a Diet Coke?” They stared at me like I was an alien from Mars. “I could make coffee. I have wine, too, but you probably don’t drink on duty. And you’re on duty, aren’t you?” I looked right at Gambino. “All of you.”
“Nobody’s thirsty,” said Dunphy, ever the diplomat.
“Cece, I don’t think you know Detective King.” Gambino indicated a short but powerfully built man in his midfifties. He was mean, and I’m not talking the kind of person who wouldn’t tell you there was a piece of lettuce stuck between your teeth. I’m talking big mean. Bad mean. I looked at Gambino, who was shaking his head ever so slightly. I wasn’t sure what he was trying to tell me, but “Don’t mess with this guy” was a distinct possibility.
“Ms. Caruso, let’s get something straight right away.” King gave me a hollow smile. “The Jake Waite case is mine now. And insofar as it ties in to the Edgar Edwards investigation, I will be working with the detectives from Palm Springs.”
“Okay.”
“This is a courtesy call. Playtime is over. Am I making myself understood? Because if I’m not, I’ll be glad to go over anything you might be unclear about back at the station.”
“I think Ms. Caruso understands the gravity of the situation,” Gambino said, walking over to me.
“You don’t need to protect her, Gambino.”
“I don’t need you telling me what to do.”
“I think we’re done now,” I said, heading to the door.
“You’re not the one who decides when the interview is over,” said King, who sat down on the couch and started jiggling his leg. Why do people do that? It had to be a caveman thing. But maybe he was just trying to shake off the pet hairs.
“While we’re here, maybe you can clear up a couple of things.”
“You said this was a courtesy call,” I said, holding my ground.
“We’ve just been to see your friend Bridget Sugarhill.”
Shit.
“We were looking for some information about Andrew Damiani. You know Andrew Damiani. You and Detective Gambino found Jake Waite at his apartment last
night.”
Damiani. I hadn’t known his last name until now. I wouldn’t have guessed he was Italian, but you never can tell. Mary Lou Retton, the Olympic gymnast, is also Italian.
“Ms. Sugarhill was expecting him at work today, but he never showed up.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t seem very surprised.”
“I’m not.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Look, Andrew has nothing to do with me.”
“What did he say to you to get you to come over to his house in the middle of the night, Ms. Caruso?”
I paused a beat. “It was Jake.” Why did I say that? I shouldn’t have said that. But I wanted them to leave Andrew alone, for Bridget’s sake. And it was clear they didn’t plan on leaving him alone. He was their number one suspect.
“Jake Waite called you?”
“Yes.”
“Not Andrew Damiani.”
“No.” What was I doing?
“You and Andrew have no special relationship?”
“No.” What was he insinuating?
“No business relationship?”
“No relationship of any kind.”
“Fine. We’re getting off track here. Was Andrew Damiani there when Jake called you last night?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Jake sound as if he were speaking under duress?”
“No.”
“What did he say exactly?”
“That he’d remembered something. Something I should know.”
“Fuck!”
Everyone turned to look at Lasarow.
“Sorry. I broke a nail.”
King looked disgusted. Misogynist. “Was anybody else there when you arrived at the Echo Park address?”
“No. Well, Detective Gambino.”
“Lucky for you.”
What he meant was that if Gambino hadn’t been there it would’ve been me, not Andrew, who was on the top of their list.
“Detective, don’t you think a more fruitful line of inquiry would involve the gun? Or maybe the fake suicide note? Detective Gambino said there were two sets of prints on it. One was obviously Jake’s. So who does the other set belong to?”
“We don’t have any matches at this time.”
“Sounds like you have your work cut out for you.”
“Show some respect,” said Dunphy, back from the dead.
“I can take care of myself, thank you very much,” King shot back.
“Of course.” Dunphy turned red. This jerk was making me feel sorry for two women I didn’t even like.
“I suppose we’re done,” he said, getting up. “For the time being.”
Lasarow took Dunphy’s arm and pulled her toward the door, desperate to get away.
“I have something to add here,” Dunphy said, disengaging herself from her partner. “Something Ms. Caruso will find interesting.”
“Yes?”
“It’s about that painting. The one that belonged to Edgar Edwards.”
I bit my lower lip. “Uh-huh.”
“You asked us about it at the memorial service. Do you remember?”
“I remember.”
“Well, we found it.”
Finally. Finally, I was going to get somewhere.
“Aren’t you going to ask where?”
“Where?”
Lasarow jumped in. “At the bottom of a trash can at Mr. Edwards’s place in Palm Springs. The one in the service porch, near the washing machine. Destroyed. Totally ripped up. Thought you’d want to know.”
“I’m going to walk them out. I’ll be right back,” Gambino whispered to me. “Don’t move.”
I wasn’t even sure I could breathe.
28
A minute later there was a soft knock at the door.
I opened it.
“What the hell just happened here?” I asked Gambino as I headed into the kitchen.
How could that painting have been destroyed? Who would have done such a thing?
“I’ll take that wine now,” he called.
Clarissa’s name sprang to mind. She was upset that morning. Or maybe Nancy did it, to make her mother look bad. I didn’t know.
“Do you have red?”
“Bad Chianti.”
“Sounds good.”
I came back out with two glasses. “I ordered a large pepperoni and olives. It’ll be here in half an hour.” Breathe. Edgar’s painting of Grace Horton is in shreds and you just lied to the police, but you still have to breathe.
“King’s a good detective, I have to give him that,” Gambino said, unbuckling his holster.
“Can you put that thing in the closet? I don’t want to look at it.”
“No problem,” he said, taking off his jacket as he walked down the hall. “But he treats everybody like shit.” I heard the water running in the bathroom. Then Gambino came out wiping his face with a towel and sat down next to me. “What King was really pissed off about was me. I should’ve called him that night. It should’ve been his case from the beginning.”
“When did Lasarow and Dunphy show up in L.A.?” And why did Dunphy choose that particular moment to mention the painting?
“I don’t know. But when I realized the three of them were headed over here, I thought I’d better come along.”
“Thank you.” I leaned over and kissed him. I had to pull myself together here. “Your five o’clock shadow becomes you.”
“I’m not ready to go there yet, Cece. What about this painting? When Lasarow told you it’d been trashed, you looked ready to jump out of your skin.”
I took a sip of wine. “I did?”
“Yup.”
“Time marches on, but his powers of observation are undimmed.”
“Let’s hear it, Cece.”
I took another sip. “That painting meant a lot to a lot of people.”
“Like who?”
“Well, Edgar, for one.”
“What did it mean to Edgar?”
“I don’t know exactly. Give me that towel.” He handed it to me and I folded it up and put it on the coffee table.
“Who else?”
“That girl we saw perform last night. Nancy Olsen. The painting was a portrait of her grandmother, the original model for the Nancy Drew covers. For her, it meant family history.”
“And?”
“And then there’s me. It mattered to me.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to understand the woman in it. Now I don’t think I ever will.” I shook my head. “Can we change the subject?”
“Sure.”
It was quiet for a few seconds.
“So. Tell me how your case is going.”
“It’s going nowhere fast.”
“Can you be more explicit?”
“You really want to hear this?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” I moved closer to him.
“Two good-looking young men, no criminal records, no mob ties, nothing. Solid citizens. They’re found pumped full of bullets inside a burning car on a quiet side street in a residential area. No gangs, no drugs.”
“What, then?”
“The one thing these poor suckers have in common is Tiffani Lowrie.”
“Who?”
“Tiffani Lowrie. She and her identical twin sister, Brandi, were Playboy models in the early nineties.”
I rolled my eyes. “What do people expect when they name their children Tiffani and Brandi?”
“Those aren’t their real names, Cece.”
“Whatever.”
“Playboy models attract stupid men. Like this bogus Wall Street trader, came from a family of Iowa pig farmers. He was behind a major hedge fund scam. While he was riding high, he fell for Tiffani. Gave her houses, cars, millions of dollars’ worth of jewelry. The feds caught up with him eventually, and when they found out where the money went, they wanted it back so they could reimburse the poor fools this pig farmer had
conned. Tiffani informed them she had no knowledge of any fraudulent business dealings and they could go screw themselves.”
“Poor girl earned her keep the hard way.”
“No doubt, but legally she had no claim to it. Eventually, she handed over the items she said she still had, but there were a few key omissions.”
“Is that where the dead guys come into it? The solid citizens?”
“Yup. They’d fallen under her spell, too. An out-of-work actor and a doorman at a nightclub. Not exactly a brain trust.”
God, they sounded like Jake and Andrew, poor fools. Was Bridget really in love with Andrew? Why would Andrew have hurt Jake? Could Jake have been blackmailing Andrew about the old days? Was Andrew hiding him so he could keep tabs on him?
“They were trying to sell seven hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry for Tiffani that night.”
“So the buyers killed them and kept the money and the jewels?”
“And torched the car to cover up their tracks. That’s how it’s looking, at least.”
“What about the Wall Street guy?”
“In federal prison in Pensacola, Florida.”
“And Tiffani?”
“Rock-solid alibi.”
“You sleep with the right person and you’ve got a rock-solid alibi.”
“She was at a church dance.”
“Please.”
“I’m not kidding,” he said, laughing. “There were close to a hundred people there. A little Unitarian church in Yucaipa. She made the punch.”
“The Nancy Drew books are full of twins and look-alikes pulling fast ones. Maybe it wasn’t Tiffani that night. Maybe it was Brandi.”
He slapped his forehead. “Now why didn’t I think of that?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Yes, I’m kidding you. She was out of town.”
I was reaching for a pillow to hit him with when the doorbell rang.
“Saved by a pizza.”
Out of town. Who knows what that means? Was someone with this out-of-town twin every second? You can go from out of town to in town pretty quickly. This was the age of flight, after all. Had anybody checked the punch bowl for fingerprints?
Fingerprints. How could I have forgotten about fingerprints?