When we were youngsters, some of us snuggled under our blankets and reveled in the delights of reading mysteries. For boys, it was Encyclopedia Brown or the Hardy Boys. For girls, it was Nancy Drew.As we followed Nancy into caves and haunted houses, we flirted with the idea of someday tracking bad guys and solving crimes ourselves. Life, however, including jobs at respectable companies with insurance benefits and pension plans, got in the way. Not for me. I can still remember the day when Charlie, my late great husband, and I opened our first office south of Canal Street on Broadway. We were the real thing, with ARSON AND PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS painted in big black letters on the door. We determined the origin and cause of fires. We identified arsonists. We solved insurance-fraud cases. Sometimes I sloshed through five-inch deep water looking for flammable liquid burn patterns in the cellars of burned out buildings. Other times, I walked into savagely incinerated houses and knew almost instinctively where the fire had started. Now and then I used charm or guile to coax homeowners into answering questions they wished I had never asked. Once or twice when digging through debris, I found essential documents that fire marshals, police, and even the DEA had missed when they searched for clues. I interview juveniles who set fires in their beds. I photograph my own fire scenes and I analyze pictures taken at fire scenes by others. When I was growing up, Nancy Drew was my hero. So were Sherlock Holmes, Lord Peter Wimsey, and Hercule Poirot. They are still my heroes. I am not always as knowledgeable as Sherlock, as charming as Peter, as precise as Poirot, or as daring Nancy Drew, but I love what I do. Nancy stalked suspects into dark houses in the middle of the night without backup. I don't go anywhere without backup. Charlie taught me that. She could also change the spark plugs on her car, and I can't even change my windshield wipers. But I recently investigated two car fires and discovered that one was arson and the other caused by a carelessly discarded tobacco pipe. I crawled under the axles of an eighteen-wheeler carrying brand-new BMWs and accurately determined where and how that fire started, too. Then there was that suspicious fire in the four-story Queen Anne House in the Bronx. Why wasn't that woman arrested! I use a magnifying glass, I poke around in dangerous places, I have no steady income, no guaranteed source of clients, and a job with no pension plan or health-care benefits. Which is what being a private investigator is all about. Like being Nancy Drew. But better. Nancy only got to investigate crimes. I get to turn fact to fiction, and after I brush the ashes off my blue jeans, I do my best to entertain you. My name is Shelly Reuben. I am honored to welcome you to my website, and I am very happy introduce you to my books. Shelly Reuben's novels have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. She is a licensed private detective, IAAI Certified Fire Investigator, newspaper columnist, and lecturer. |
