I screamed and climbed inside the shower stall.
Remi chased the dogs out, then returned. “Can I have this?” She held up the bottle of hair oil.
“No.” I snatched it back from her. “That costs like a hundred dollars. I need to make it last. You can’t use it on the dogs.”
“Why would I use it on the dogs? And can you get me some candy bars?”
“Remi, I’m up to my ears in work. And I’m meeting Chandler’s brother soon.”
“Chandler from Bigfoot Trackers? Can I meet his brother?”
“No can do, Remisita. This is a ‘professionals only’ visit. I have no idea what this dude is like.” For all I knew, he was like Chandler. Maybe into Tooth Fairies. We’d never be done with the traps.
Opening the door, I ushered her out. Her tiny yet determined chin rose. “You are no fun anymore.”
“Tell me about it.” I sighed, shut the door and caught my reflection. Not long ago, this mug could be found on the cover of magazines. Now I only looked worthy of a National Enquirer exposé.
Giving up on glamour, I pulled my hair into a ponytail and hurried outside to Lucky.
* * *
Like Roger Price, Crispin Jonson still lived with his parents in Black Pine. Unlike Roger, he didn’t blow up a bank and my boss. Therefore, I could speak to him without passing out.
The Jonson’s lived in a large brick home in an upscale neighborhood in Black Pine. Crispin was twenty-one and worked at a local tubing company. It seemed floating on a river was popular with the seasonal guests.
“I’ve never gone tubing,” I told Crispin. “It sounds like fun.”
“It sucks,” said Crispin, flipping a fan of light brown hair from his face. “Especially when tubers get stuck and I have to rescue them. Have you ever hauled out a fat dude who’s wedged between two giant rocks?”
Obviously not, but I shook my head anyway.
“They always get wedged between the same two rocks. It sucks. I wanted to be an outfitter, but they make you work your way up. Chandler’s so lucky.”
“But Chandler’s missing,” I said. “Kind of not lucky, IMHO.”
“He’s not missing. Chan’s just gone. If he were really missing, we would have heard something.”
That sort of logic was difficult to argue against. I switched topics. “When was the last time you saw Chandler?”
“Every time I turn on the friggin’ TV. I’m so sick of that stupid show. Friggin’ algorithms. Because Suz and Mike watch his channel, it’s all over our recommended and watched lists.”
Suz and Mike were Susan and Michael Jonson, his parents. Of course, Chandler’s parents would watch their son’s show. I nodded approvingly, then frowned at Crispin. “I meant in real life. The last time you talked to him face-to-face. Or even on the phone? Messaged? Snapchatted? Whatsup’ed?”
“No clue. I don’t talk to Chandler. He talks to my parents sometimes. But he’s not, like, the reliable son. Look who’s here. Helping them. Someone’s got to watch this house.” He waved a hand at the kitchen table where we sat. Next to his phone and laptop, energy drink cans, chip bags, and other wrappers littered the table. A pizza box and empty jug of milk sat on the counter. Cereal boxes graced another counter.
He spotted my critical kitchen gaze. “The cleaning lady doesn’t come until tomorrow.”
I had my doubts about the help Crispin proclaimed. Still, prodigal son and all. I pulled out the boot from my Campomaggi backpack. “Does this look familiar?”
He pulled up his pant leg and showed me the Keen currently ensconcing his foot. Unfortunately, the matching one appeared on his other foot. No Cinderella here.
“Could it be Chandler’s? What shoe size was he?”
“I don’t buy his shoes, so I don’t know.”
Interviewing was a lot harder than I thought. “Where are your parents? Do they know he’s missing? I’d like to talk to them, too.”
“I don’t know where they are. Went somewhere for work. Suz and Mike talked to the police too. I’m telling you, Chandler takes off and doesn’t tell anyone. All. The. Time. Anyway, he drove to Atlanta and flew to Mexico. Police confirmed it. Nobody’s worried.”
“But has he bounced since Bigfoot Trackers started? It looked like his show’s been uploaded consistently over the last year. And it’s really popular.” I quoted the kids, “‘Viewers expect constant content.’”
Casting me an aggrieved look, Crispin mumbled something about letting him “think” and looked to the kitchen ceiling for help. I let my gaze wander the room again. Family pictures hung on one wall. Outdoorsy fun. The brothers as children on trails, rivers, beaches, and skiing. Arms around each other, laughing and smiling. But nothing recent.
“I can’t remember when I talked to him. But the last time Chan took off, he went to Alaska.”
I glanced back at Crispin. He’d been watching me study the pictures.
“That was about two years ago?” he continued. “Chan worked at a fishing camp while he researched the Yeti. He finally called us three months later.”
“He didn’t have a YouTube channel back then?”
“Just a blog. He’s had a blog for a long time. But no one does that anymore.” Crispin ran his hands through his long brown hair. “Guess he got tired of doing the Bigfoot show and moved on to something else.”
At the height of its popularity?
“I’d really like to know more about Chandler, the person,” I said, trying a different tack. “It could help me locate him. Even if he’s not really missing, I’m sure everyone would like to know where he is.”
Crispin snorted. “Okay.”
“At least the Bigfoot Tracker team would like to know.”
“They’re kids. Probably can’t figure out how to do the show without him.”
“They’re worried about your brother. He left them at the campsite and never returned.”
“Typical,” said Crispin. “Wait. Are you really a private investigator?”
I nodded, crossing my fingers beneath the table.
“Because he does get stalkers. Crazy women. Most of them don’t look like you, though.” Crispin raised one brow and gave me a side smile. “You want to go tubing sometime? I get a company discount. We could bring a cooler—”
“Let's keep this professional,” I said in my best professional private investigator voice. This wasn’t going anywhere. I stood. “Do you have a key to his apartment? I’d like to check it out. I’d also like to see his room.”
“The police already looked but whatever.” Crispin dragged himself from his chair drape. “I think we got a key around here somewhere.”
He rummaged in a bowl near the kitchen door, looped a key on his finger, and walked it to me. I held out my hand. He grabbed my wrist. “You sure you’re not interested in Chandler because of the show?”
I yanked on my wrist and his grip tightened.
“I’m only interested in finding him.”
“Okay, then. You never know about peeps.” Crispin dropped the key in my palm. “Like I said, stalkers.”
I shoved my hand into my pocket, gripping the key. “Where’s his room? Upstairs? I’ll find it.”
“I think I better keep an eye on you.”
I mentally rolled my eyes and followed him up the back staircase and down a hall. No family pictures here. The walls were lined with film posters. “I guess your family are movie fans?”
“Mike’s a producer. Mostly indie stuff. Used to direct. Suz directs, too.”
“That’s where Chandler gets—”
Crispin spun around, fists clenched. He stepped toward me. “Don’t even.”
“What?”
“You were going to say, ‘Chandler takes after them.’ That would be me. Chandler goofs off in the woods, playing with a GoPro. I write and know how to direct. One of these days I’ll get something made. I’ve always been interested. Not Chandler. He could’ve cared less. I’ve gone to the sets with Mike and Suz since I was able to
look after myself.”
“So,” I said, trying for casual and not creeped-out. “Where are your parents again?”
“I told you, I don’t know. We don’t check up on each other.” He sneered. “Not like Georgia parents, hovering over their kids. I see it on the river all the time.”
“There’s nothing wrong with caring about children…” Realizing I was about to take a segue into Maizie-couch-issues, I stopped.
“Whatever. You don’t understand.”
“I get it and still think you’re being insensitive to your brother’s situation.” I cocked a hip and mustered a Julia Pinkerton glare. One raised and one lowered eyebrow with a slight lip curl. “And I wasn’t raised here. I was raised on sets in California. Ex-actress.”
“What sets?”
“Julia Pinkerton, Teen Detective. And some other work I’d rather not mention.”
“Never heard of it.” He shook his head. “What’s it on? Micro-cable?”
“Network—never mind.” I refused to be disappointed at my lack of fame with the youth in Black Pine. The middle-aged in Black Pine certainly knew me. Which meant I had rapidly aged or marketing had gotten the demographics all wrong.
Okay, Maizie. Not supposed to care about that anymore. You have a real job. Even if it’s going sideways at the moment.
I strode past Crispin, looking through doorways. Found what I thought to be Chandler’s and entered. Framed prints of the mountains hung on the walls. King size bed neatly made.
“Not his room. It’s a guest room.”
I pivoted. Crispin stood in the doorway, crossed arms.
“So, like any other acting? Why are you back here? Couldn’t make it? Do you want to do this indie project? I’ll need a screen test and I can’t pay you, but…”
I ignored him to march into the next room. Framed movie posters. Bedding wadded and rumpled. Energy drink cans and crumpled chip bags scattered throughout. I began to back out and bumped into Crispin.
“Sorry, I guess this is your room.” My eyes carried over the mess and landed on his dresser. A small cardboard box stood open on its side. A bag of brown capsules had spilled out of the box.
Crispin pushed past me and swept the bag into the box. “Do you smoke?” He turned around holding another box. A wooden cigar humidor. “I’ve got good stuff. Vape or pipe? I’ve got papers, too, if you’re into that.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
He followed me into the room across the hall. “It’s medicinal. My doctor in California sets me up. I have a ‘scrip. For anxiety.”
“I’m not DEA. Just looking for your brother.” Another bedroom. Less lived-in than Crispin’s, but it held a similar man-boy vibe. Cleaner. Chandler’s movie posters were more Creature from the Black Lagoon than Crispin’s art-house flicks. The dresser was covered in trophies and childhood knickknacks.
“Academic bowl?” I said. “Chess?”
“Chan was a total nerd in school, yeah.” Crispin sidled up next to me. “When I Google you…”
“Don’t Google me.” I opened the closet door. Ski equipment, winter wear, and flannel shirts. A shelf of boots. None missing a leftie, but the size was correct. Of course, size ten was like a woman’s eight. He probably had trouble finding good deals, too.
I sighed and closed the closet door. I wasn’t learning anything new other than Chandler was a high school brainiac, monster nerd, and outdoorsy. And he had an annoying younger brother.
Crispin hung in the doorway. “Not finding anything?”
I held in my glare and opened a dresser.
“Do you think pawing through his tidy-whities is going to find him?”
Crispin had struck one of my many raw nerves. I didn’t know enough about investigating (yet) to get any good leads on Chandler. And he was right. Chandler’s underwear was not going to help me. No secret diaries hidden beneath his boxers. “Why does he have so much stuff here when he has his own apartment?”
“I don’t know. He crashes here sometimes. Maybe when the stalkers get too crazy.”
I turned to see if Crispin was kidding or not. “Do the police know about the stalkers?”
He shrugged.
How could he be so blasé about his missing brother? “Where do you think your brother is?”
“Hell, hopefully.”
Fifteen
#GoldishGirls #OnMyOwnAgain
It was hard for me to believe a brother could have so much animosity toward a brother. I guess that was the whole thing with Cain and Abel, but as Vicki never took me to church, I didn’t know much about that. As someone who didn’t have a sibling until six-and-one-half years ago, I couldn’t image hating a brother enough to wish him dead. Or not caring if he was. It made me want to bundle Remi up and smother her in hugs.
Too bad Remi wasn’t the cuddly type.
I needed to talk out my suspicions about Crispin Jonson. Nash would have a terrific opinion. I pulled my helmet on, ready to jet — an impossibility on Lucky, but still — to the office.
And caught myself.
Pinching my thumb, I refocused. Now, who else would listen to me hash out my feelings about Crispin and sort mountains from molehills?
I didn’t want to bother Lamar. Particularly when he didn’t want me wasting time on this case. Ian Mowry? Probably would tell me the police already interviewed him and got nada. Although he might be interested in Crispin’s pot…
I had no time for police witness paperwork for a possession charge.
That left me with the girls. They would also understand the plight of my nails. And would commiserate about Oliver. That’s what friends were for. Venting and dishing snarky comments about your exes. Tiffany and Rhonda of LA HAIR were like The Golden Girls except much younger and more ghetto.
If the strip mall housing LA HAIR had been in LA, I would have considered it sketchy. The parking lot had potholes and most of the lines had faded. The door of LA HAIR looked like cracked marble. Or broken glass. Black with a gold crackle finish, so take your pick. Inside, the black and gold theme continued from the open shelving to the hair stations. The stylists also wore black. Black with bleach freckles masked with Sharpie ink. But their hearts were pure gold.
For the most part. Sometimes I worried about Tiffany.
To the disgust of the other stylists, Rhonda and Tiffany left their stations — reception and nails — to greet me. I had a Steel Magnolias moment and almost cried. Then Tiffany dragged us outside, using me as an excuse for a cigarette break, and I got over myself.
In the alley behind the salon, Rhonda took in my hair, nails, complexion, and outfit. Gave me a solemn and disappointed, “Girl.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s been so bad I can’t even take care of myself properly. But I did shower today. It’s been a while since I slept, though.”
“When celebrities go to hell, y’all fall completely apart,” said Tiffany.
“Not all of us,” I said thinking about Giulio and Vicki. “You will never guess who I saw today. Someone who is probably not a fugitive. And had the nerve to show up in Black Pine. Particularly at a time when I look like this.”
Rhonda clapped her hands. “This is going to be good. Who?”
“Oliver Fraser?”
She danced in a circle. “I can’t believe it. It’s like you’re cursed.”
“Don’t sound so excited.”
“Oliver, your ex-fiancé?” said Tiffany. “I thought he was in prison.”
“Not so much. I found him at the Wellspring Center juice bar with Vicki and Giulio.”
“Lord Almighty, Maizie.” Rhonda exploded with laughter. “You have the worst timing of anyone I know. And we have the scoop even before TMZ. I can’t wait to say I knew it first.”
“You can stop being so thrilled,” I said. “This is horrible. He has no right to be spa’ing while I’m digging in dirt and moving furniture. He’s supposed to run into me in Saint-Tropez after I’ve lost twenty pounds, have a perpetual tan, and own a successful privat
e investigation office. With my adorable three children — Jemima, Astrid, and Carter — and my loving husband. Who’s incredibly wealthy, handsome, and gently wakes me in bed with a tray of donuts and coffee every day.”
Tiffany blew out her laughter in a plume of smoke. “How d’you plan on losing twenty pounds and eat a tray of donuts every day?”
“What did you say when you saw Oliver?” asked Rhonda.
I gritted my teeth at the memory. “Not much. I was too busy having a panic attack. And trying to keep Giulio from breaking up with my mother. Not that I have an issue with that, but I really can’t handle the fallout. She’s already texting me sixty times a day about the wedding.”
“Giulio did what?” said Rhonda. “What is going on? Is it the season-ending of All is Albright?”
“It did have the season-ender-cliffhanger vibe,” I said. “But Giulio seemed sincere in his contempt for Vicki and the situation with Oliver. I don’t blame him. Although Giulio brought it on himself. I do blame him.”
Tiffany shook her head. “I swear Jerry Springer needs to do an episode on you. It’d really help his ratings.”
“It is a lot of drama at once.” I sighed. “And it does seem absurd when you’re not living through it.”
“I’m sorry,” said Rhonda. “Oliver ruined your life. You deserve to be living your dream before seeing him again.”
“Thank you. He picked the worst week of my life to show up.”
“How’s Mr. Nash?” asked Rhonda soberly.
I began to cry.
“He passed? Oh Lord, I am so sorry I was cutting up so hard. I had no idea.”
I shook my head, wiped my eyes. “No. But he hasn’t woken up…” I couldn’t admit how much I missed Nash. He was my boss. The girls had enough to say about my usual ineptitudes. I wasn’t getting into that kind of stupidity. “…and we’re in financial jeopardy.”
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