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Authors: Susan Kandel
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uproariously.
“So much for cocktail attire,” Bridget said.
66
S U S A N
K A N D E L
“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 choco-
lates and a golf ball–shaped paperweight embossed
with the American Airlines logo. More official spon-
sors, 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,
N O T
A
G I R L
D E T E C T I V E
67
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
68
S U S A N
K A N D E L
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.
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
“So much for cocktail attire,” Bridget said.
66
S U S A N
K A N D E L
“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 choco-
lates and a golf ball–shaped paperweight embossed
with the American Airlines logo. More official spon-
sors, 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,
N O T
A
G I R L
D E T E C T I V E
67
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
68
S U S A N
K A N D E L
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.
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
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