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Authors: Susan Kandel
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stretch ofthe
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!”
64
S U S A N
K A N D E L
“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 pa-trolman 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 ma-
chine 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.
N O T
A
G I R L
D E T E C T I V E
65
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 Deliver-
ance .”
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 inexplica-bly on the asphalt.
The valet hurried over. He was wearing a red uni-
form 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
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!”
64
S U S A N
K A N D E L
“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 pa-trolman 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 ma-
chine 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.
N O T
A
G I R L
D E T E C T I V E
65
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 Deliver-
ance .”
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 inexplica-bly on the asphalt.
The valet hurried over. He was wearing a red uni-
form 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
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