My slender biography -- the one containing my meager academic and literary achievements -- was rejected by my webmaster as being insufficiently interesting to warrant a page of its own. That being the case, I have no option but to resort to the truth.I am Nancy Drew. I am she, herself, in the flesh. Some of you out there, when you were youngsters, may have snuggled under the covers, read about Nancy following villains into caves or haunted houses, and flirted with the idea of tracking malefactors yourselves. Life, however, including professional responsibilities at jobs with insurance benefits and pension plans, usually gets in the way. Not for me. I can still remember the day that Charlie, my late, great husband, and I opened our little office south of Canal Street in Chinatown with ARSON AND PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS painted in gold-bordered black letters on the glass in a wood-framed door. We were the real thing. We determined the origin and cause of fires. We identified arsonists. We solved insurance-fraud cases. There were wonderful times when I sloshed through five-inch deep water looking for flammable liquid burn patterns in the cellars of burned buildings. There were other times when I was exhilarated after marching into the charred debris of a residence and knowing almost instinctively exactly where the fire had started. There were occasions when I had to use all my guile to get a homeowner to stop faking ignorance of English and answer my questions; and others when I would wander off by myself, dig through debris, and find essential documents that the fire marshals, police, and even the DEA had missed during their prior searches of the premises. I interviewed juveniles who had set fires in their beds. I photographed fire scenes and analyzed photographs taken by other investigators. And I took it all in stride. Or at least I did until the day when Charlie and I were sitting underneath the floor beams of a house balanced on skids and attached to a huge truck. We were discussing the artifacts we had found beneath the foundation when a construction worker, seeing us there, ordered us out and said, aghast, "Are you two crazy?" I hadn't thought so then. But I have since come to realize that, perhaps, what we were doing for a living -- what I continue to do -- might be somewhat different than selling real estate, trading stocks and bonds, or performing liver transplants. I still don't think that I am crazy. Nor am I always as capable as Nancy Drew. She has stalked suspects into dark houses in the middle of the night without backup. I don't go anywhere without backup. Charlie taught me that. Nancy can also change the spark plugs on her car. I can't even change my windshield wipers. But I recently investigated two car fires and discovered that one was arson and the other was caused by a carelessly discarded tobacco pipe. And not long ago I analyzed a fire in an eighteen-wheeler carrying a load of eight spanking brand-new cars. I crawled under the axles, took photographs of the shredded and singed tires, argued with the fancy-schmancy mechanical engineers, and accurately determined where and how that fire started, too. In thinking it over, even though I investigate incidents of a suspicious nature, use a magnifying glass, interview suspects, and regularly poke around in dangerous places, it is possible that I have inadvertently misled you. I may, in fact, not be Nancy Drew. Let me look in my wallet. It says here that I am a certified fire investigator. I have no steady income. No guaranteed source of clients. And a job with no pension plan or health-care benefits. But I do get to write books. Six so far: The Skirt Man, Tabula Rasa, Weeping, Spent Matches, Origin and Cause, and Julian Solo. And I have private investigator licenses from three states. The names on those PI licenses and books don't say Nancy Drew. They say Shelly Reuben. Well, what do you know? I guess that's who I must be. Shelly Reuben. Honored and happy to welcome you to my website and introduce you to my books. |
