“Bankruptcy?” said Tiffany. “Dump that place and get yourself another job before you land back in jail. Don’t risk your probation, girl. I know this for a fact. We could hire you here to sweep hair. Except Rhonda’s supposed to do that.”
“I am?” said Rhonda.
“But…” I wasn’t ready to give up on Nash. These women were practical by design and always kept it real. Which I liked. Although sometimes they could get too real. Which could be a little painful.
“I do have one case. But the clients are teenagers.”
“Are you kidding me?” asked Tiffany. “Get a real case. Hang out at the Cove and pass out business cards or something. Some drunk, rich guy will hire you, for sure. To do what, you probably don’t want to know, but still. Money’s money.”
No one wanted me helping the kids. As I had the same initial instinct, I didn’t correct Tiffany. Instead, I explained the night of Chandler’s disappearance and the fruitless police search. “These high schoolers are sort of a big deal. They have a YouTube channel with the missing guy, Chandler Jonson—”
“Bigfoot Trackers? Lord Almighty, do not tell me that hottie Chandler Jonson is missing.” Rhonda placed her hands on her braids and shimmied, causing her considerable curves to undulate. “Chandler Jonson is dreamy. It’s so cute when he thinks he sees Bigfoot and goes chasing off into the woods.”
Tiffany snorted.
She shot a look at Tiffany’s snigger. “That’s legit, Tiff. Better than all the Tasty videos someone else watches who doesn’t even cook.”
“They’re called satisfying videos for a reason. It’s how I relax.”
I just might be the only American who didn’t YouTube.
A glow appeared in Rhonda’s cherubic cheeks. “If you saw Chandler, you’d watch him, too. We do live in the heart of Bigfoot country. They’ve found—”
“Hold up.” I sensed the brewing of an epic believer battle. Epic battles were as much a part of their friendship as makeup tips and GNOs, but time was of the essence. “Before we get into Bigfoot drama, I wanted to get your opinion on another kind of drama. I just met with Chandler’s brother, Crispin. He doesn’t believe Chandler is missing. He doesn’t even seem to care. But he did mention that Chandler has a lot of female fans. Stalkers.”
I glanced at Rhonda, who shook her head and mouthed, “Not me.”
“He thinks stalkers kidnapped Chandler?” said Tiffany.
“He thinks Chandler bounced. That’s Chandler’s M.O. But the brother definitely had suspicious vibes. Couldn’t tell me much about Chandler. Couldn’t tell me where his parents were. Didn’t even know his brother’s shoe size.”
“Who knows their brother’s shoe size?” said Tiffany.
“Size thirteen,” said Rhonda. “Twelve, thirteen, and a seven.”
Tiffany rolled her eyes. “It proves nothing. Men don’t pay attention to that stuff. The police interviewed Crispin, didn’t they?”
“Yep,” I admitted. “Though Crispin might’ve been high when I talked to him. Maybe he gets paranoid. He offered me a toke and I spied some kind of pills on his dresser.”
“Sounds like you were killing his buzz,” said Tiffany.
“I don’t know.” I blew out a long sigh. “I want the new me to be the strong She-Ra type. But I feel like I can’t do this job properly without Nash. I’m so indecisive and unsure. I ask the wrong questions and I don’t know what clues to look for. All I got from Crispin was an offer for a date and a screen test.”
“Screen test?” Rhonda wrinkled her nose.
“He wants to do indie films like his parents. And he’s way jealous of his brother’s success.” I tapped my chin. “But the stalker situation is worth exploring, don’t you think? If Rhonda is crazy about Chandler, there must be even crazier women who are interested.”
Tiffany shook her head, making the blue tips of her angled bob swing. “You got nothing else, do you? Stalkers and a suspicious brother?”
“I have a boot.” I opened my backpack to show them.
The girls looked in the bag, then glanced at each other.
“Listen, Maizie, if the office is in danger of closing, maybe you should focus on looking for another job,” said Rhonda. “This sounds like a dead end. If the police couldn’t find anything—”
“But I’m the kids’ Obi Wan.”
Their foreheads wrinkled.
“I’m their only hope. No one believes them.”
“They believe in Bigfoot,” said Tiffany. “That should tell you something.”
Sixteen
#Miseryable #Bikeaboom
The end of the day approached, and I needed something. Some kind of evidence (other than a boot and a suspicious brother) to prove the Chandler situation more serious than it seemed to get the police to resume their investigation.
Or if Chandler had bounced, I needed to find him and put the teens’ minds to rest.
Chandler’s apartment was located on the other side of town from his parents’ subdivision. A modest block of six small flats on the edge of town. Judging by the trucks and small sedans in the parking lot, the other tenants were working class. I was surprised he didn’t live in a tree house in the forest. Or a tiny home on the lake. Or anywhere more glamorous than this.
Inside Chandler’s second floor one-bedroom, more creature feature posters hung on the walls. He had simple, clean-lined furniture and a crap ton of camera gear. What he didn’t spend on his housing, he did on camera and sound equipment. Two desktops and a laptop on one giant desk, covered in trailing USB cords. His bedroom revealed a crazily mixed pile of camping and hiking supplies. The kitchen, mostly trail mix and protein bars. The bookshelf was an encyclopedic array of cryptozoology.
But no evidence of stalkers. No perfumed letters, gifted undies, or amputated ears.
Of course, the police would have confiscated any amputated ears. Another question for Ian Mowry.
I had no hacking skills and I couldn’t guess his computer passwords. While I poked around his shoes, I heard the rumble of an engine. I scooted to the window and peeked through the blinds. A motorcycle had pulled into the gravel parking lot. Absently, I watched the helmeted man park his bike and study the apartments. I returned to the shoes, letting my thoughts drift back to my clue-search. What would Nash look for? The clues in Julia Pinkerton, Teen Detective had been hidden but obviously useful.
I supposed real-life clues were not so obvious.
Alrighty. If I wasn’t good at looking for clues, maybe canvassing was more my thing.
I left the apartment to knock on doors, starting across the hall.
“Hello,” I said, in my best professionally investigative voice. “I’m looking for Chandler Jonson, your next door neighbor. He’s missing. Have you seen any suspicious people around lately? Or Chandler?”
The woman who answered the door raised an eyebrow and squinted at me.
“Aside from me,” I said. “And I’m not suspicious. I was hired to look for Chandler.”
The door shut before I could step back. I squelched a “Hey” and moved on.
“Good evening. My name is Maizie Albright and I’m with Nash Security Solutions. My clients are worried about your neighbor Chandler Jonson. Have you spoken to the police about him recently? When was the last time you saw him?”
“No policía.” The door swung closed.
The next apartment, I skipped the police and waved a crumpled five dollar bill.
“I know Chandler,” said the tenant, smoothing out my Lincoln. The large guy wore flip-flops and a Salt Life T-shirt. The scent of garlic and onion drifted from his apartment, making my stomach growl. “He’s a cool dude. You know he’s got a YouTube show?”
I nodded. “I heard it’s very popular with the ladies.”
“It is?” The man leaned back in his doorway. “No way. That’s totally cool.”
“Have you seen any ladies hanging around here? Maybe of the stalker-ish variety?”
“Stalking Chandler? Dude,
no way.”
“His brother thought it was a problem.”
“Whoa. A crazy fan. I can see that.” Big Dude held out his hands, framing the scene. “So, like this chick takes Chandler.”
“Yes?” A prickle of excitement ran through me. I danced on my toes, ready to dash the information to Ian Mowry. I could finally have a solid lead. “Did you see her?”
“Kind of an old chick. Maybe middle-aged. Total nut job. She lives in the mountains. On a farm.”
“On Black Pine Mountain? That’s where he was last seen.”
“Not sure what mountain. He had an accident and she takes him home. And chains him to the bed. And when he tries to escape, she takes a sledgehammer—”
I held up a hand. “I think that’s Misery.”
“Yeah, have you seen it? Totally awesome.”
“But Chandler?”
“You think something like that could happen to him?”
“I hope not,” I mumbled. “Thank you for your time.”
Apartment five was empty and no one answered at six. Feeling the acute grip of disappointment, I wandered back to Lucky. And noticed a puddle underneath her. A puddle that hadn’t been there earlier. A few feet away, I spotted something on the ground and pocketed it. I felt queasy. But decided to try rational and logical before hysterical and crazy.
I returned to apartment four.
“Hey,” said Big Dude. “Did you find Chandler?”
“Not yet,” I said, wondering if the oregano in his tomato sauce was really oregano. “Do you know anything about bikes?”
A minute later, we gazed at Lucky. He bent over her, straightened, and folded his arms. “Someone clipped your fuel line.”
“Why would they do that?” I covered my mouth with my hands, backing up. “Oh my God. Is Lucky going to explode?”
“Dude. Did you see the explosion in The Godfather? The Dark Knight had a good one.” He squinted. “Casino. Dude, totally Casino.”
“Were they dirt bikes? Are we in danger?” I yanked my phone from my back pocket ready to dial 9-1-1.
He shook his head. “Nah. You just can’t start it. Those were bombs, dude. Someone was probably trying to steal your gas.”
“Oh.” My relief was almost as great as Big Dude’s disappointment that there wouldn’t be an explosion. “You must watch a lot of movies.”
“Dude, I’m a key grip. But I really want to get into special effects.”
Of course. I couldn’t get away from the industry.
But that didn’t bother me so much as the object the motorcycle rider had dropped was a lighter. One explosion in my life was enough.
* * *
“It’s been a day,” I said to Nash. Visiting hours were almost over, but we needed to talk.
Or at least, I needed to talk.
I gazed at the man lying in the bed. I’d brought him one of his concert T-shirts from the office and laid it on top of his hospital gown. I figured the nurses needed him in the gown, at least until he could move around on his own. But it was easier to talk to Nash with a Metallica logo draped over his chest than light blue cotton.
“By the way, it looks like you lost weight. Which is totally unfair since you’ve barely moved a muscle since getting here. I tried this new workout called digging and exercised muscles I never knew I had. But when I got on the scale before my shower, I’d gained two pounds. How is that right?”
Someone had moved Steve the armadillo back to the table. I settled him under Nash’s arm. Stroked Nash’s forehead. Just for a second. Noted the growth of stubble on his cheeks that had begun to hide his cuts. And original scar.
Original to me, anyway.
I sank onto the chair next to his bed. In the open door behind us, the bustle of hospital life continued. I scooted closer and pretended he didn’t smell more like hospital and less like Nash.
“I’ve been busy since finding the boot. It seems the only people who are worried about Chandler are the YouTubers. And maybe his neighbor. But the more I look into this case, the more I find his disappearance odd. Chandler might be flaky, but I really don’t think he’d abandon the kids in the woods to suddenly run off to Mexico. It doesn’t make any sense.”
Taking Nash’s hand, I squeezed. “Don’t worry, I’m not leaving you to run around Mexico to look for Chandler. Yet. I did talk to his brother. He’s a piece of work. But no real evidence I can take to the police. Yet. Other than the boot. Which I’m giving to Detective Mowry. As soon as I get my bike working again.”
I forced a chuckle. “I guess the neighborhood where Chandler lives is sketchier than I thought. Not that Lucky would have exploded or anything. Easily fixed. Daddy said he can replace the fuel line tonight. And Ian Mowry’s going to check the motorcycle database for a matched description of the vandal’s bike. I’m going to see him tomorrow.”
Probably bike sabotage was not a good coma topic. Nash didn’t like me driving Lucky as it was. And I had my doubts that the motorcycle rider was trying to steal Lucky’s fuel. Although my number one suspect for that prank — Crispin — didn’t own a motorcycle. At least I hadn’t seen one at the house.
I paused to ease my voice from anxious to carefree. “Anyhoo, it’s been a full day what with my friends telling me to quit work and seeing Oliver and finding…not very good evidence. But don’t you think it’s important I keep trying for the sake of the teens?”
We sat on that for a minute.
“I promise I’ll get us some other clients, too. And do my volunteer community service. And therapy. In any case, I don’t have time for Vicki’s possibly-non-wedding, right? And helps me to avoid Oliver. Not that I’m dwelling on Oliver. No worries there. It was just a shock to see him. And so totally unfair that I’m here, dealing with—”
I was surprised by the vehemence in my voice. Switched to a better-for-coma-patients tone.
“I mean, he was my fiancé, Nash. I know that doesn’t sound like much when I was also engaged to Giulio, but I really thought I loved Oliver. And he wasn’t who I thought he was. He betrayed me.” My anger collapsed into self-pity. I sniffled and pinched my thumb, not liking that feeling any better. “How can he just show up here like nothing ever happened?”
Steve stared at me impassively.
“Let it go. You’re right. I should be glad that I learned the truth about Oliver even if it got me in so much trouble. I mean, look where I am now.”
I was in a hospital, talking to the man I secretly adored. Who was unconscious. And in serious financial jeopardy. And as much as I wanted to help him, I couldn’t seem to do anything right.
An unexpected sob bubbled from my chest. I pressed Nash’s hand against my cheek then laid it back on the bed.
“Don’t worry. Not going to lay all that on you. Back to a safer topic. I wish you could help me with the teens. I’m not sure how to proceed. I’ve been relying on your guidance up until now.”
The steady beeping of his monitors gave me comfort. I felt my shoulders relax. Allowing blood that had been constricted in my neck to flow properly to my brain.
“Of course, I should go to Wellspring and ask around there next. They were camped nearby. I have to go there tomorrow anyway. I never met the manager. I could talk to the other staff. Not that there are many at the Wellspring Center. But I guess it just opened and without many guests…”
I laid his palm against my cheek again and sighed. “I don’t know what to do without you, Nash. Why don’t you wake up now?”
Seventeen
#CircularFile #AsGoodAsItGets
The next morning dawned full of promise. Even if the night hadn’t brought any sleep. I had a new to-do list. Fuller and longer than I’d like. But there was hope that Nash would wake, and I applied that optimism with the last of my Tom Ford shimmering body oil. With Lucky repaired, I motored to work, keeping an eye out for motorcycles.
Thankfully, it proved too early for marauding cyclists.
Upon arriving at the office (today’s donut was frosted
maple), I realized I had no way to contact the kids. I needed them to check out the boot before I took it to Ian Mowry. See what they knew about Crispin and stalkers. Or any other non-Stranger Things theories that I could investigate. I didn’t know the teens’ last names, but I knew a place that might have taken their basic info.
They’d asked the other private investigator for help. Sweeney Security Solutions.
The thought made me shudder. And almost put me off the donut. But I couldn’t let Jolene Sweeney have the upper hand. I crammed the frosted maple in my mouth and set off for Sweeney Security Solutions. On foot. It was one block over from the Dixie Kreme Donut building. Another slap in the face.
Instead of a second floor (dusty) two-room office, Sweeney Security Solutions had a first-floor suite in a beautifully restored historic brick property. With parking that wasn’t overrun by donut shoppers. Flowers grew in decorative urns by the door. The big front window sparkled, as did the glass in the wooden door. The gold letters naming the business weren’t chipped or peeling. And when I opened the door, the room smelled like fresh laundry and sunshine. Not men and donuts.
You couldn’t have everything.
The girl at the front desk — young, pony-tailed, and eager— glanced up from her coffee. “You’re Maizie Albright.”
“Guilty as charged.” I held up my hands and chuckled. “Is Jolene here?”
“Not yet.”
Thank God for small favors.
“Jolene said you used to be on TV. Can you do something?” At my bewildered look, she added, “Like a line or something?”
I pointed my finger at her. “I’ll make it happen.”
She stared. A little blankly for my taste.
“Did you want something other than Julia Pinkerton? That was her catchphrase.”
“Who’s Julia Pinkerton?”
If only Vicki wasn’t so wrapped up in All is Albright reality land, Julia Pinkerton Teen Detective would have sold to Netflix by now.
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