Free Not A Girl Detective by Susan Kandel Page A

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 every-
    body 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.
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    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 recog-
    nized.
    “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.
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    “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.
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    And speaking of Nancy Drew’s long-suffering
    beau, Ned, why do you think his last name is Nicker-
    son? Nickers-on, get it? The poor sap.”
    A man wearing a name tag that read Big Bad Se-
    bastien 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 mem-
    ber 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!”
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    Lael and I looked at each other and cracked up.
    “Clarissa 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