15 Minutes

by Larissa Reinhart

  "I need to work under a private investigator. Two years, right? You're board certified with the Georgia Association of Professional Private Investigators. And you need office help."

  "Leave GAPPI out of this."

  "I just graduated," I pleaded. "I'm educated, Mr. Nash. I know what I need to do. Now it's training. It's only two years."

  Nash's eyes flicked from the folder to me. "All right. I'll make you a deal. You successfully deliver this summons to the right person and I'll let you follow Sarah Waverly for a week." Then he cracked a smile.

  A brilliant smile. With a dimple. Paired with those gleaming polar eyes, the broken nose and scar seemed to vanish.

  I fell a teensy bit in love. But don't worry. I do that all the time. Hearts are made to be broken and so forth. Besides, I had a dream to fulfill. Maybe a naïve dream, but a dream nevertheless. I was on the road to becoming a real Julia Pinkerton.

  While I was Californicating, Black Pine experienced an explosion of the economic and population variety. Besides the resort, vacation homes and private boat docks had always surrounded the lake. Those servicing the vacationers lived in Black Pine, once a town of about eight thousand. But in the last twenty years, the town had experienced steady growth. Partly in thanks to DeerNose apparel.

  DeerNose had grown. Black Pine had grown. And about the time I got out of my first rehab stint—boom!—Black Pine quadrupled in commerce, population, and tourists. I didn't recognize the town anymore, except for the old square where Wyatt Nash had his donut scented private investigation office. And of course my daddy's land, which he'd protect with his guns and constitutional rights.

  These days, Black Pine Mountain has real subdivisions. Gated. With those little security booths. And you can't throw a rock and not hit a strip mall. We're looking more like LA every day. I even found good sushi. In Black Pine, Georgia.

  I know, right?

  Following Wyatt Nash through town, I passed a Polaris ATV shop and an Audi dealership. A live bait shop and a mega-Cabela's. A parking-lot-smoker-plastic-picnic-tabled barbecue joint next door to a gluten-free-vegan-organic cupcake shop.

  You get the picture.

  Nash's Silverado pickup hung a sharp right into a strip mall and then pulled before a hair salon. La Hair. Or LA Hair. The sign was in all caps, so hard to tell. I parked the Jag next to Wyatt Nash, hopped out of my car, and scrambled to meet him on the sidewalk.

  "You know who we're looking for?"

  "Tiffany Griffen." I shivered. From excitement or nerves, I wasn't sure. I'm supposed to inventory my emotions, but I tend to forget.

  "I'll ask for her first. Give you an idea of what can happen." Turning on the heel of his Gucci loafer, Nash strode through the door of LA HAIR.

  A tinkling bell announced my presence, quickly lost in the pumping rhythm of the top twenty hit playing from the speakers. The layered scent of acetate, ammonia, and Aveda gave me as warm a welcome as the chirping voices coming from the nail and hair stations. Behind a half wall, one stylist had a woman's head covered in foil. A nail girl chatted with a patron. I counted one more beautician, hands full of lather, soaping up a woman leaning back into a sink.

  I smiled, wiggled my fingers, and strolled past the glass and metal shelves displaying hair product and junk jewelry. Leaving on my Jet Setters, I grabbed a People and relaxed into a molded plastic chair to watch Wyatt Nash in action.

  He stood at the desk, waiting for the reception girl to unplug the phone from her ear. Rigid shoulders and stiff posture gave away his aggravation. Either with me or with standing in LA HAIR. Some guys can't relax in a salon. My daddy, for example. Probably hadn't seen the inside of a salon since he divorced my mother. Unfortunately, he could really use a trim. Particularly his beard.

  The reception girl finished her call and gazed up at Nash. "Would you like a cut?"

  "Is Tiffany Griffen working?" asked Nash.

  Five sets of eyes cut toward the manicurist, then to Nash. Everyone except for the woman bent backward over the sink. She had no idea that a hard-bodied giant with Paul Newman eyes stood in the beauty salon. Her stylist continued to massage shampoo into her scalp, her eyes on Nash.

  The nail girl, a thin brunette with a pixie shag ombre dyed in electric blue, shook her head. "She ain't here."

  "That's funny," said Nash. "Because when I called a few minutes ago, I was told Tiffany was working today."

  "Sorry," said the brunette. "You were told wrong."

  "Guess I'll wait until she shows."

  "Guess you might be waiting a while, but suit yourself." The brunette turned back to her client and flipped on a small fan attached to the nail table. "Barb, you let these dry before you take off. I don't want to hear about touch ups."

  With a scowl, Nash stalked to the line of plastic chairs and chose one near the reception desk, five chairs from me. Picking up a magazine from the table next to him, he glanced at it, looked at me, and threw the tabloid back on the table.

  Time for Julia Pinkerton. I tossed the People onto a chair, rose, and strode past Nash to the desk. "I'd like to have my nails done."

  "Mani/pedi?" asked the girl. Her dark, curly hair had been straightened and bobbed, setting off a snub nose, mocha skin, and chocolate eyes. Adorbs. Vicki would have told her to lose forty pounds, but I knew Spanx and the right jeans would have done her well enough without starving off the weight.

  "Just a file and buff, I think." Pulling off my sunglasses, I slid them into my bag and smiled.

  "You're M-m-maizie Albright," the girl stammered.

  "What's your name?"

  "Rhonda." She stuck out her hand and I shook it.

  "Nice to meet you, Rhonda. How are you?"

  In the salon area, the women had leaned forward, watching Rhonda and me. The stylist at the sink pulled a phone from her pocket.

  "Just fine, ma'am." Rhonda still clutched my hand. "How are you?"

  "I'm great, Rhonda. I've moved back home to Black Pine for good."

  "Oh, that's nice," breathed Rhonda. "The locals will leave y'all alone if you want. We've gotten used to some celebrities coming up here."

  "I am glad to hear that, Rhonda. I wasn't happy in Hollywood, you know?"

  "You should hear what my husband calls Hollywood," said the foil lady. "Of course you can't be happy out there. This is your real home. It's right for you to come back to your daddy. We know all about what happened. Y'all ran around with the wrong sort."

  "Would you sign me an autograph?" asked Rhonda. "And can we do a picture?"

  "Sure, Rhonda." I reached over the reception desk, grabbed a pen, and signed my name in big, loopy letters on the schedule book.

  Rhonda held out her phone, and I wrapped an arm around her neck and smiled for a selfie. Probably'd go viral, but I couldn't keep my debut in Black Pine under wraps for long. Besides, I felt bad for what was about to happen.

  Returning Rhonda's phone, I glanced over my shoulder at Nash. He’d crease his Armani shirt if he didn’t stop crossing his arms so tightly. And that scowl would cause crow’s feet. I grinned at him. He looked at his watch.

  "Now," I said, "how about that buff and file?"

  “Yes, ma’am.” Rhonda scurried from behind her desk, grasped my arm, and led me to the nail area.

  Phones clicked photos as we trooped behind the half wall. I oohed and ahhed over the setup, glancing at the framed certificates in each station as I passed. Jenna. Shelly. Ashley. Ashley had a photo stuck to her mirror. Ashley wasn't working today.

  Barb, the tiny woman with the wet nails, popped out of her seat. "I'm all done, Miss Albright." Grasping my hand in two of hers, Barb pumped my arm. "I am glad you have put that horrible business behind you. We here in Black Pine would love to welcome you back. As long as you don't do any of that funny stuff anymore."

  "Thank you, Barb.”

  “Right?” said Rhonda. “They said in Us Weekly, you got a nice judge. He took it easy on you. Gave you probation and rehab and some fines."

 
I hated rehashing my former life. But I also hated how the tabloids always got the details wrong. It was a choice between allowing people to think the worst or coming off as defensive. A total lose-lose situation, as Vicki would say.

  "I got lucky with Judge Ellis. And he agreed that moving to Black Pine and starting over was a healthy solution. I had to finish college and the 'minute I graduated' move back home and get a job. I have ten days to turn in a pay stub. Then another year of checking in to see that I stay on my feet."

  "You need to speak to my church, Miss Maizie," said Barb, still pumping my hand.

  "Barb, your nails," said the brunette with the blue ends.

  Barb pulled her hands off mine and waved them in the air. "They're fine. Miss Albright, you go on and have a seat. I'll just sit over at the dryer table."

  I slid into the seat before the brunette and studied the wall over her shoulder. No certificate. Brunette with the blue ombre dye must be Tiffany. When Nash had said her name, they had all shot her a look and Barb had quit talking, at least until I had introduced myself. Simple deduction, just like Julia Pinkerton would have done. My lips curled with excitement.

  Leaning toward Barb, I winked. "I heard this was a good place to get a manicure."

  Tiffany raised her brows. "People like you usually go to the shops over at the lake."

  "Well, maybe I'm different.” I smiled.

  Brunette glanced at my Nina Ricci dress and snorted.

  Ignoring the snort, I extended my fingers over the towel covered bump on her table. "So, Tiffany, how long have you lived in Black Pine?"

  "Long enough."

  Nash hopped to his feet. He clutched an envelope in his big hand.

  I swiveled back to Tiffany. She narrowed her liquid-lined eyes, half stood, and drew an elbow back. I stared at the elbow, realized it was attached to a fist, and caught Tiffany's focused glare as her knuckle slammed into my nose.

  My chair tipped back. My bag flew across the linoleum tiles. The Jimmy Choos shot into the air. And an intense, sharp pain ricocheted through my head.

  I squeezed my eyes shut to the sound of more clicking phones.

  three

  #PunchintheDeerNose #ManiPediPow

  I loved Julia Pinkerton: Teen Detective.

  Not because the show gave me international exposure. I worked with some great actors, both my regular cast and the guest stars. Real nice people who genuinely seemed to like me. Excellent crew and sweet craft folks. Treated me like a princess. On a long running show, they say your colleagues become family. That's true. But when a show ends, the family disperses.

  And you don't always get a new family. Especially when you've outgrown your cheer uniform, but everyone still thinks of you as a cheerleader. And you weren't that great of an actress anyway.

  Even in hindsight, I would have done the show all over again. But not for the reasons you might think. Julia was smart. Really clever, sometimes crafty, but still likable. The other characters underestimated her because she was a teenager, but Julia used it to her advantage. Her teenagerness was her disguise.

  She began as a school narc in the first season, working with the local police department. But after falling in love with the high school basketball star/drug dealer—originally a redeemable character, but when his contract wasn't renewed, the writers had to flip him and kill him off—Julia lost confidence in the police and decided to strike out on her own. When you’re a teen detective on TV, you can do that. It worked. For eight seasons.

  That's like two millennia in TV years.

  Plus, I met real police officers and real security agents. Advisors to the show. They took me for ride-alongs, got me into the Kids Police Academy, and let me hang out with them on set so I could listen to their stories. My agent and Vicki encouraged it, thinking it would help me develop Julia into a more convincing character, even though the advisors were actually hired to assist the writers and director.

  Quick-witted and sharp, Julia could make the experts laugh. She asked provocative questions. Detective Earl King—guy with a permanent scowl and no neck—took me for ice cream every Friday.

  Detective King said he wished he had a daughter as bright as Julia.

  I'll tell you one thing. Julia Pinkerton would never have gotten socked in the nose by a nail esthetician.

  I lay on the floor, holding my nose and tearing up. I was no Julia Pinkerton. I wasn't even a very good Maizie Albright. But I had succeeded in flushing out Tiffany for Wyatt Nash. Maybe he would still give me the job.

  Mr. Nash handed Tiffany her papers, glanced down at me, and shook his head. “Guess I should have told you she has a record for assault. Didn’t think she’d use it on you. They were all domestic disputes.” After asking if I wanted to call the police, he offered me a hand up, steadied me on my Jimmy Choo wedges, and left.

  Tiffany cursed him up one side and down the other as he walked away.

  That girl has a mouth.

  Blood dripped off the end of my nose and splattered my white dress. Grabbing the towel from the manicure table, I held it over my nose, inhaled acetate and ammonia, and almost blacked out.

  “I’m so sorry.” Rhonda righted the chair, grabbed my elbow and guided me to safety. “Thank you for not pressing charges. Tiff has some anger issues. And an itchy trigger fist. But only when it comes to subpoenas.”

  Barb, foil head, wet hair, and the two stylists stood watching us. While taking photos. Rhonda rushed back with a clean towel that smelled of Tide instead of OPI.

  I gladly switched, handing off the nail towel with two fingers. If I had any blood left in my head, I would have blushed. The cloth looked like a prop from Saw.

  Access Hollywood would’ve had a field day.

  Tiffany glared at me from across our table. "Why in the hell would you go and give me away to that guy? Do you know what you've done?"

  "Helped him serve you a subpoena." With my nose pinched, I sounded like one of Alvin's chipmunk brothers.

  "To serve as a witness for my shithead ex-husband in his divorce proceedings to his third wife. You think I want to help that asshole?"

  No wonder she was so upset. I tried to say, "Tell the judge you'll be a hostile witness," but it came out "Tedda dunge you'd be a hotel witna."

  "You think you can interfere with people here in Black Pine?"

  "No," I said. "Iba drying do gedda job ad a dedegib."

  "I don't know what in the hell you're saying."

  "I dink my node id boken."

  Rhonda scurried back with a cup of ice, straw, and a Diet Coke.

  "Dank you, Rhadda." I pulled off the clean towel and checked for fresh blood. "At least it stopped bleeding."

  “I’ll probably lose my job.” Tiffany leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. "And I guess you'll sue me now."

  "No." I felt the bridge of my nose. "Does it look swollen to you?"

  "Yes. With my luck, you'll probably get two black eyes.” Tiffany pulled out a pack of cigarettes from the drawer, tapped the pack on the table, and shook one out. "Listen, I don’t have any money. Sue me all you want, but there's nothing to get. I rent, my vehicle ain't paid off, and there's nothing saved in the bank.”

  I smiled through the pain and accepted a sip of Diet Coke. "You think I'll really have two black eyes?"

  Tiffany stuck the unlit cigarette in the corner of her lip. "Prob'ly."

  "Oh my stars. You can't have black eyes. You're Maizie Albright." Rhonda slapped ice into the towel and slammed it across my nose. A new trickle of blood ran across the top of my lip.

  Wincing, I handed back the Diet Coke so I could hold the new towel between my eyes.

  "Honey, you keep ice on it now, then drink lots of coffee and do a mashed banana facial," said Barb. "The caffeine and bananas will make your capillaries shrink."

  "I thought you were supposed to use raw steak," said Jenna.

  "Not bananas. Pineapples," said Tin Foil.

  "Good Lord," said the stylist Shelly to Tin Foil. "Look at
the time. I've got to rinse off the solution before your hair falls out."

  "Ice now. Warm compress in two days," said Wet Hair. "I was a nurse."

  Thanking them, I scooted off my seat to scoop my spilled contents back into my Chloé bag. I examined the bent Jet-Setters and tossed them into Tiffany's trashcan.

  Tiffany peered at me through half-slitted lids, her words working around the cigarette. "When can I expect the next subpoena?"

  "I'm not going to sue you, Tiffany. I'll prove it to you. Let me buy you a drink tonight. Anywhere you want. In Black Pine," I added, unsure if Tiffany'd try to hustle me into a limo to Atlanta. Or a plane to Paris. That happened to me once before.

  Rhonda clapped a hand over her mouth. "You're just like Oprah," she whispered.

  "You can come, too, Rhonda," I said.

  "Black Pine Resort," drawled Tiffany. "The Cove. How'd you feel about that?"

  "That's fine."

  "Might see some of your friends there." Tiffany yanked the cigarette out of her mouth. "You think you can handle hanging with me and Rhonda if your friends see us?"

  "I don't have any friends in Black Pine. I haven't been home in six years." I made a quick inventory of people I knew in Black Pine who weren't family and weren't Tiffany and Rhonda. Wyatt Nash. David Waverly. Mr. Lamar. "I might ask about a case while I'm there, though. You won't mind, will you?"

  "That'd be exciting." With her hands still clasped to her mouth, Rhonda's words were muffled.

  I worked Julia Pinkerton's wry smile into her catch phrase. "I'll make it happen."

  "Good Lord," said Tiffany. "You better be buying top shelf."

  I followed the old business highway to Wyatt Nash's office, checking my swollen nose and darkening eyes at each stop light. I looked like Donatella Versace's plastic surgeon had given me a quickie nose job.

  Thank God Vicki was back in Beverly Hills. If she’d seen me, she would have killed me. Just like when a club I’d been partying in was raided and a camera caught me after the sprinkler system went off. Although that soaked Isabel Marant dress did get me the Maxim cover. And the offer from Playboy, which I didn't do. You always do Maxim, if offered.