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Authors: Chelsea Cain
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adventure yet.
It turned out to be my most harrowing.
VI THE MYSTERY OF THE CONGOLESE PUPPET, 1959
T his is strictly dullsville," my pretty chum Bess Marvin sighed, adjusting the Moroccan tunic she had brought back from
the trip to Tangier that had followed her third divorce. "Dig?"
"Dig?"
"Hoo-boy, Sister," Bess exclaimed. "You're one real gone chick." She stretched out on my davenport and went back to reading Exodus, which she had just been assigned to condense for Reader's Digest. Bess's perceived weight problem, thanks to Carolyn Keene's character assassination, had led her to a life spent trawling for
men in search of affirmation. Her most recent husband, a beatnik poet, had abandoned Bess at a North Beach coffee house after
telling her that she had been "weighing him down." He had immediately gone on to publish a well-received chapbook of poetry
titled "Pretty, Plump Blond." Still heartbroken, Bess flew to River Heights after her trip to Tangier and had been staying with us for almost six weeks.
Fast approaching fifty, Bess held stubbornly to her youth and had coped with her breakup by adopting the jive talk of the
current youth culture. It was getting on my nerves.
"I have no idea what you just said," I sighed, returning to my dishes.
Hannah Gruen had died two years before. Though I had investigated her demise in great detail for several months, even I had
to admit, finally, that it was due to natural causes. She had kept my secret to the end. And I had kept hers. What's more,
per my backyard promise, I had committed to the life of a dutiful housewife. I was not good at it and was often distracted
by my ongoing pursuit of missing socks and waylaid keys. My greatest memories of those days revolve around a missing hamster.
Sadly, we did not recover him alive. But it was still thrilling.
The back door burst open and in flew Ned, followed closely by teenage Ned Junior. Their clothes were caked with mud and their
eyes were wild. My back tensed reflexively at their approach.
"Wipe your feet," I cautioned.
Ned grinned excitedly. "I think we're making real progress!"
He and Ned Junior had been building a bomb shelter in the backyard for several months. Ned had gotten it in his head that
I wanted one after I had made a passing comment after reading an article in Ladies' Home Journal about the A-bomb. He could not be dissuaded.
"That's nice, dear," I remarked.
"Want to see the fallout minibar we built?" Ned asked, eyes bright. "If you huddle under it, it doubles as protection against
atomic radiation. I painted it blue, your favorite color."
The phone rang. I picked it up and immediately recognized the urgent voice of my father, Carson Drew, the world-renowned attorney-turned-judge-turned-losing-city-council-candidate.
While he had grown more wizened, he maintained his healthy spirits.
"Nancy!" he croaked. "Can you come over right away? I've come across something you'll want to see."
I hesitated only for a moment. "Sure, Dad," I agreed, with a sideways look at the Neds. "I'm on my way."
I sped to my stately childhood home behind the wheel of my blue 1958 Ford Ranch Wagon. I had traded in my latest roadster
two years before, after Ned decided that it wasn't practical for a woman my age. I checked my appearance in the rearview
mirror. My hair had started to gray and I now dyed it. At first I had tried blond, but it didn't suit me, so I had finally
gone back to titian. I had grown accustomed to my aging features. I was still a handsome woman. My breasts were just a little
lower and my hips a little wider. Cherry Ames, I happened to know, had gotten quite fat. Beside me, Bess twirled a piece of
her silver blond mane and looked bored in the passenger seat. She was tanned and bedecked with beaded jewelry from her travels.
I envied her freedom, if not her insecurities.
The house was the same as it always had been: a comfortable, three-story brick Colonial with a large front yard
It turned out to be my most harrowing.
VI THE MYSTERY OF THE CONGOLESE PUPPET, 1959
T his is strictly dullsville," my pretty chum Bess Marvin sighed, adjusting the Moroccan tunic she had brought back from
the trip to Tangier that had followed her third divorce. "Dig?"
"Dig?"
"Hoo-boy, Sister," Bess exclaimed. "You're one real gone chick." She stretched out on my davenport and went back to reading Exodus, which she had just been assigned to condense for Reader's Digest. Bess's perceived weight problem, thanks to Carolyn Keene's character assassination, had led her to a life spent trawling for
men in search of affirmation. Her most recent husband, a beatnik poet, had abandoned Bess at a North Beach coffee house after
telling her that she had been "weighing him down." He had immediately gone on to publish a well-received chapbook of poetry
titled "Pretty, Plump Blond." Still heartbroken, Bess flew to River Heights after her trip to Tangier and had been staying with us for almost six weeks.
Fast approaching fifty, Bess held stubbornly to her youth and had coped with her breakup by adopting the jive talk of the
current youth culture. It was getting on my nerves.
"I have no idea what you just said," I sighed, returning to my dishes.
Hannah Gruen had died two years before. Though I had investigated her demise in great detail for several months, even I had
to admit, finally, that it was due to natural causes. She had kept my secret to the end. And I had kept hers. What's more,
per my backyard promise, I had committed to the life of a dutiful housewife. I was not good at it and was often distracted
by my ongoing pursuit of missing socks and waylaid keys. My greatest memories of those days revolve around a missing hamster.
Sadly, we did not recover him alive. But it was still thrilling.
The back door burst open and in flew Ned, followed closely by teenage Ned Junior. Their clothes were caked with mud and their
eyes were wild. My back tensed reflexively at their approach.
"Wipe your feet," I cautioned.
Ned grinned excitedly. "I think we're making real progress!"
He and Ned Junior had been building a bomb shelter in the backyard for several months. Ned had gotten it in his head that
I wanted one after I had made a passing comment after reading an article in Ladies' Home Journal about the A-bomb. He could not be dissuaded.
"That's nice, dear," I remarked.
"Want to see the fallout minibar we built?" Ned asked, eyes bright. "If you huddle under it, it doubles as protection against
atomic radiation. I painted it blue, your favorite color."
The phone rang. I picked it up and immediately recognized the urgent voice of my father, Carson Drew, the world-renowned attorney-turned-judge-turned-losing-city-council-candidate.
While he had grown more wizened, he maintained his healthy spirits.
"Nancy!" he croaked. "Can you come over right away? I've come across something you'll want to see."
I hesitated only for a moment. "Sure, Dad," I agreed, with a sideways look at the Neds. "I'm on my way."
I sped to my stately childhood home behind the wheel of my blue 1958 Ford Ranch Wagon. I had traded in my latest roadster
two years before, after Ned decided that it wasn't practical for a woman my age. I checked my appearance in the rearview
mirror. My hair had started to gray and I now dyed it. At first I had tried blond, but it didn't suit me, so I had finally
gone back to titian. I had grown accustomed to my aging features. I was still a handsome woman. My breasts were just a little
lower and my hips a little wider. Cherry Ames, I happened to know, had gotten quite fat. Beside me, Bess twirled a piece of
her silver blond mane and looked bored in the passenger seat. She was tanned and bedecked with beaded jewelry from her travels.
I envied her freedom, if not her insecurities.
The house was the same as it always had been: a comfortable, three-story brick Colonial with a large front yard
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