I Dreamed I Married Perry Mason

I Dreamed I Married Perry Mason

3.6 8
by Susan Kandel

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I Dreamed I Married Perry Mason is the debut novel in a hip, sexy, smart and, yes, cozy mystery series with a great hook. Think Sex and the City collides with Murder, She Wrote.

All that writer Cece Caruso really wants to do is complete her biography of mystery legend Erle Stanley Gardner, find a vintage 1970s Ossie Clark gown to

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I Dreamed I Married Perry Mason is the debut novel in a hip, sexy, smart and, yes, cozy mystery series with a great hook. Think Sex and the City collides with Murder, She Wrote.

All that writer Cece Caruso really wants to do is complete her biography of mystery legend Erle Stanley Gardner, find a vintage 1970s Ossie Clark gown to add to her collection, and fix the doorknob on her picturesque West Hollywood bungalow. Then a chance visit with a prison inmate who knew Gardner lands her right in the middle of a 40–year–old murder and another case where the blood is still warm. In fact, Cece finds the body. This brings her into irresistible contact with her inner personal sleuth and shows how crime and greed can reverberate through several generations of a single family.

Editorial Reviews

The Barnes & Noble Review
It started with a case of writer's block. Pretty, vivacious Cece Caruso turned to a life of crime after her divorce. But she's neither breaking and entering nor running cons. Instead, she's writing biographies of famous crime novelists, and now it's Erle Stanley Gardner'a turn under Cece's magnifying glass.

While the creator of Perry Mason had an exciting life, including his own share of courtroom dramatics as a lawyer, it was his Court of Last Resort that fascinated Cece. The Court of Last Resort was a place where those wrongly convicted could petition Gardner to find enough evidence to reopen their cases. Cece was researching the Court in the hope it would give her enough material to propel her through her unfinished chapters. In a last-ditch effort to procrastinate -- while pretending to work -- she goes to visit an elderly prison inmate whose desperate appeal she finds misfiled and unexplored among the otherwise meticulously organized files of the Erle Stanley Gardner Archives.

From there, it's a surprisingly short step to working the long-neglected case, just to get a feel for what Gardner did so often. That's the first step down a slippery slope that soon pulls Cece into a case closed 40 years ago, when a man was sent to jail for killing his wife. And that cold case suddenly turns hot when the murdered woman's sister is knifed to death shortly after Cece interviews her. Inspired by the thought of Perry Mason at her side in her quest for justice, ex–beauty queen Cece straightens her stocking seams (she's a vintage clothing buff) and sets out to untangle mysteries, solve two murders, and finish her manuscript on time.

L.A. Times art critic Susan Kandel is sure to delight readers with her innovative fictional exploration of a fascinating facet of the history of crime fiction. Sue Stone

Product Details

HarperCollins Publishers
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CeCe Caruso Mysteries , #1
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I Dreamed I Married Perry Mason

A Cece Caruso Mystery
By Kandel, Susan


ISBN: 0060581050

Chapter One

What a pity my vintage Maud Frizon pumps didn't come with steel-reinforced toes. Lace stilettoes are not the best defense against a case of gourmet cat food moving inexorably toward zero-degree gravity. Why on earth did I ever buy in bulk?

"You okay?" asked my gardener, Javier, who was fixing a downed sprinkler head on my small but velvety front lawn.

"I'm fine, just ignore me," I moaned, rubbing what was left of my foot. "What about the snails?"

Javier checked the bowl of beer I had put out last night. I wasn't being a good hostess (I drew the line at cheese and crackers), but I had tried everything else, including mailorder carnivorous snails bred to destroy their herbivorous cousins. I'd been ready to give up entirely on my ornamental cabbages when I'd heard the mere smell of beer lured the monsters to their deaths.

"Sorry. No bodies."

I kicked the door open with my good foot, greeted Mimi, the cat indirectly responsible for my suffering, and Buster, my teacup poodle, dumped the grocery bags on the kitchen table, and upset a half-drunk cup of cold coffee. I decided against wiping it up just then (that would mean finding the paper towels) and hit the button on the answering machine.

BEEP. "Hi, it's Lael. You won't believe it -- "

Actually, I would. Lael was my best friend in the world and an extraordinary person, but she had a unique talent for disaster. I'd listen to the rest after a shower and perhaps some meditation. I don't meditate, but I keep thinking I should start.

Sidestepping the coffee now dripping onto the floor, I went into the bedroom and took off my favorite suit, a black Joan Crawford–esque number I'd found at an estate sale with Lael, who'd zeroed in on an almost complete and barely chipped set of Wedgwood lusterware. She'd tried to talk me into removing the suit's shoulder pads, but I liked the linebacker/diva effect -- not to mention that you don't mess around with a classic silhouette. But I suppose Lael and I are different that way. I am obsessed with clothes, and she is the kind of beautiful woman who doesn't need to be.

I picked my robe up off the bathroom floor and turned on the water, which took precisely three and a half minutes to warm up.

My West Hollywood bungalow, purchased nine years ago with the proceeds from my divorce settlement, was like a Stradivarius -- the 1932 Spanish had amazing art deco details, but woe to she disrespectful of its myriad quirks. Like the temperamental plumbing, for one thing. Or the sloping floor in the kitchen, which meant that anything heated on the stove top would migrate to the right side of the pot. Or the front door's inlaid brass knob, which pulled off pretty much every time you tried to open the door from the inside. Visitors seemed to find this latter idiosyncrasy particularly unnerving.

BEEP. "This is George at Kleiner's. The new motor for your fountain is in. Listen, the old one was really filthy. You have to clean it out twice a week like I told you, especially when the Santa Anas are blowing all that muck around."

What George didn't know was that my fountain was of the same vintage as my house, and equally volatile. Also, that the portentous Santa Ana winds were invented by Raymond Chandler purely for literary purposes.

BEEP. "Call your mother."

BEEP. "Please call your mother, dear. I have no idea where you are."

BEEP. "Cece, it's Richie. Call Mom, for god's sake. She's cleaning the attic again, and doesn't know what to do with your stuff. Do you want to keep your crown? Joanne and the kids send their love."

Like all good Italian boys, my brothers, Richie and James Jr., worshiped their mother. I was somewhat more ambivalent. This the boys understood from an early age, which meant I'd spent my childhood at the mercy of a pair of pintsize enforcers. They became cops, just like our dad. I became a beauty queen. But for the record, my reign as Miss Asbury Park, New Jersey, was short-lived and utterly lamentable. Mom could use my crown to plunge the toilet for all I cared. More likely she'd wear it to a church potluck. She'd always harbored the belief that she'd been switched at birth and was really royalty, or Frank Sinatra's sister at least.

BEEP. "Hello, I'm returning Cece's call. Listen, Cece, if you're there, I have a vagabond virgin, a negligent nymph, a hesitant hostess, and a borrowed brunette for you. So, are you a madam or a mystery buff ? But seriously, folks, they're five dollars apiece, paperback reprints."

Everyone's a comedian.

"I've got a first edition of The Case of the Sleepwalker's Niece, but I don't think you want it. There's some water damage on the sleeve, but it's still pretty pricey. Ditto The Case of the Curious Bride, which is one of the better prewar Masons, not that I'm an expert, like some people. You can order on-line or by phone. We're here until eight p.m., thanks to folks like yourself."

I suppose that made it official. Even the bozo working the desk at the Mystery Manor could see that Perry Mason had stolen my life. Yes, that would be Perry Mason, the worldfamous and much-beloved attorney-at-law.

To wit: I could tell you under what circumstances Perry could be persuaded to take a case (a natural blonde in distress was always a plus); his favorite expletive ("the deuce!"); how he liked his steak (broiled rare); and what he drank when he had to drive (soda water just flavored with Scotch) -- in short, as much as Della Street, his perfect jewel of a secretary, ever could. I go to bed marveling at his courtroom moves and wake up mulling his situational ethics. Some might say I'm obsessed. My answer would be it's purely business ...


Excerpted from I Dreamed I Married Perry Mason by Kandel, Susan Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Meet the Author

Susan Kandel is a former art critic for the Los Angeles Times. She has taught at New York University and UCLA, and served as editor of the international journal artext. She lives in West Hollywood, California, with her husband, two daughters, and dog.

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