"I've always put everything on my card and let Vicki pay it off." Tears welled in my eyes and I pinched my thumb skin. "I feel like an idiot. I don't even have a car anymore. I'm riding the dirt bike I got when I turned fourteen."
"Oh my stars." Rhonda clapped a hand over her mouth.
"Unbelievable. It's like you're from another planet." Tiffany pointed to the chair and I sat. "You've been in two hit TV shows, a crap reality show, some shitty movies, and your face has been plastered all over the place. You must have a ton of money."
I shrugged.
"Unless..." Tiffany leaned back and crossed her arms. "What the hell, Maizie. Your mother is a piece of work. Get a friggin' clue."
"I cannot be a victim to my learned behavior. I can only unlearn it and begin fresh."
"What in the hell does that mean?" Tiffany picked up my hand and began rubbing remover on my nails. “Why are you defending her?”
“I’m not defending Vicki. My therapist told me it means I've got to move on. That’s what I’m doing.”
“Yet, she still controls your wallet. And your life.”
“Not if I can keep my job. And not as long as I can dodge her until they return to LA for the new season.”
"Your plan is to live on minimum wage and hide from your mother? You’re in serious need of a reality check."
"You already gave her that, Tiffany," said Rhonda. "Her face is still recovering."
Tiffany shook her head while she lathered my hands in pink lotion and shoved them in warming gloves. "Girl, you are one hot mess. But I'll give you this. You certainly have a good attitude. I'd have gone postal by now."
I beamed. "Thank you, Tiffany."
"So what are you going to do about Sarah Waverly?"
"I'm headed to Nash Security Solutions after this. We'll probably talk to more neighbors, check the surrounding hospitals and transportation services. Maybe she got a ride to the airport." I left off the part about Sarah leaving her purse in the car. Staying positive and whatnot.
"You sound like you know what you're doing,” said Rhonda. "I'd love to hang out with you while you're playing Julia Pinkerton."
"Maybe you can," I said. "Let me find out what Nash wants me to do and I'll give you a call."
Nash's plan wasn't exactly what I had in mind. In fact, Nash wasn't even at his office to deliver his plan. Instead, Lamar clarified Nash's plan. Which consisted of me answering the phone and updating his accounts receivable.
Not exactly the Sherlock scenario I had in mind.
"Maizie, are you paying attention?" asked Lamar.
I nodded, pretending Morgan Freeman explained billing invoice software because I found it more comforting than knowing Nash had tasked poor Lamar with that job. There was something about the smell of donuts and Morgan Freeman's voice that felt like the equivalent of homemade mac and cheese. "Got it. Customizable invoices. Check."
"You really will be helping Nash by taking over his billing and answering the phone." Morgan Freeman's voice softened. "It's a good place to start. You should never have been tasked with surveillance on your first day."
"Yep," I said. "Total FUBAR. But that's my own fault."
"I've got to go downstairs and keep an eye on my own minions." Lamar chuckled. "If you're a good girl, I'll bring you a box of day-olds."
I hugged Lamar, glad he didn't keep to the same no-hugging rules as Nash. In fact, Lamar seemed to enjoy it. I gave him an extra squeeze for the donuts.
Because my new tasks still provided me with a W-4 and experience in a private investigations office, I decided to make billings part of my "making Maizie Albright an integral cog in the Nash Security machinery" scheme. At the same time, I learned more about Lamar and his Dixie Kreme staff. Lamar refused to tell me anything about Nash, but he did expound on his family donut business. Lamar's grandfather was one of the early African American business owners in Black Pine. Lamar had begun working in the bakery at twelve, then at eighteen had joined the army where he served as an MP and later went into law enforcement. After his father died, Lamar moved back to Black Pine and Dixie Kreme Donuts.
Turns out Lamar loves cop and donut jokes, too.
Without telling me this, I deduced Lamar had known Nash for a long time. Probably since Lamar had returned to baking and Nash was a kid who liked donuts. Then Nash got interested in security, possibly because of his friendship with an ex-cop baker.
All weekend, I worked billing but had only seen Lamar. Wyatt Nash might've been on the trail to Sarah Waverly, but he was also avoiding me.
By Monday, Sarah Waverly's disappearance had made the news. Evidently, Nash had found something during his Maizie-avoidance to offer the police. And as I was benched, I had to read it in the paper like every other Black Piner. At least the reporters had found better news than me for their headlines. In the case of his missing wife, David Waverly had made a big splash in a bad way.
The paperboy lived to see another day.
However, Nash had landed in deeper shizzle. According to the Black Pine Gazette's exclusive interview with David Waverly, he swore to ruin Nash Security Solutions for bungling the investigation and for bringing this "sham of lies, deception, and transference" on his head. No real concern whatsoever about finding his wife. At least, in my opinion.
Hinky. As Nash would say.
After reading the exposé, I tore out of the DeerNose abode for Nash Security. Didn't even wait for breakfast. And Carol Lynn had made pecan pancakes.
At the Dixie Kreme building, I tripped over myself flying up the stairs and through the door. Nash sat at his desk with the paper, reading the interview to Lamar. I restrained from giving Nash a hug, which I thought he probably needed.
Did I say restrained? I meant refrained.
Nash paused at my party crash, rattled the paper, and continued his delivery, ending the story with a deep snort.
"You best watch your back, Nash," called Lamar from the recliner. "I heard Waverly was not satisfied with the interview done by the Gazette. He called WBP-TV and the AJC for a press conference today. Maybe he'll drum up some other Atlanta media while he's at it."
Nash shot up, ramming his chair into the back wall. "What the hell for? He believes Sarah ran away with her boyfriend. A boyfriend who, in my opinion, does not exist."
"But now David's saying he thinks Sarah was taken." Lamar's eyes remained closed. "Story suits your findings."
"Where'd you hear all this?" asked Nash.
"That's the talk early this morning in the shop. David's going to offer a reward." Lamar cranked the chair into an upright position. "You should be worried, too, Maizie. The news people will find fascination with Maizie Albright working at Nash Security if they don't already know."
They knew. DeerNose cabin had been besieged with calls from various news organizations and social media crackpots. Most believed I was using my experience at Nash Security to prepare for a comeback role. Julia Pinkerton Redux. Rumors flew around Hollywood, particularly when my ex-agent or any production company refused to claim me. Because the Albright camera crew had holed up in Black Pine, speculation of a new TV series had grown. Social media meant gossip traveled at the speed of light, evolving and expanding. Like a shooting star catching space dust and ice crystals.
In other words, a gigantic ball of dirt and gas.
When I had left home, I spotted Daddy walking the fence line with his new Browning 725 Citori. When I had asked him if he'd shoot trespassing reporters, he said, "It's a sporting gun, baby girl." Then laughed. "But they don't know that."
I guess shooting reporters wasn't sport. Boomer Spayberry would consider it a survival strategy.
I didn’t mention any of this, knowing how Nash felt about Hollywood rumors. However, I did have a problem where I could use his expertise.
"I think someone's following me," I said. "In a van. All weekend and again this morning."
"A van? The street is clogged with vehicles. There's a bunch of them taking pictures of the building." Nash
paced to the window and peered out.
"That's good business for me," said Lamar, rising from the lounge chair. "I better check on the shop. Nash, you best find solid evidence that David Waverly has done away with his wife or you'll be facing a slander and defamation suit. Especially if a body doesn't show up."
Nash kept his eyes on the window but waved him off. "I'm working on it."
"You be careful, too, Maizie," said Lamar. "What'd that van look like? I'll keep my eye out."
"A tall, black Mercedes. Hard to miss. I don't think it's paparazzi, though."
Nash turned from the window. "Sounds like a Mercedes Sprinter."
Lamar pointed at Nash. "Waverly or his lawyer might have hired another private investigator to watch you."
I had a bad feeling about that van. A Vicki feeling.
Waving goodbye to Lamar, I perched on the La-Z-Boy to resume watching Nash pace. "What did you tell the police about David Waverly? You must have found something."
"I talked with a buddy on Black Pine PD. It isn't illegal for an adult to go missing. But the police can enter the missing person in the FBI's NCIC database, so it goes on record and law enforcement can put eyes on the case. If she turns up, they'll document it."
"How did David Waverly find out?"
Nash grimaced. "Most likely when the police showed up at his house, naming him a person of interest."
"Person of interest? Doesn't that mean they have some evidence?"
"I tracked Sarah's phone to Black Pine Lake."
"What do you mean? She left it in the Porsche at the club?"
"Nope." Nash stopped before the La-Z-Boy and rested his hands on his hips. "I mean the actual lake. And that's where I'm guessing we'll also find her suitcase."
“O.M.G.”
"Right." Nash held out his hand. "Miss Albright, would you like to accompany me to the lake to watch the police dredge it?"
I contained my gasp and stopped my head from bobbing like a jackhammer. Grasping his hand, I allowed him to pull me up, exhilarating in the strength of his long fingers. Then tried to play it cool by smoothing my Topshop A-Line tank. While really making sure they hid the unbuttoned state of my R13 skinny jeans.
“And Miss Albright?"
"Yes, Mr. Nash?" I held my breath, wondering what miracle would come next. A proclamation of his gratitude? Fill out my W-4? Give me a holla?
"Try not to look so excited."
fifteen
#DeepShizzle #CelebSellOut
The parking lot of Black Pine Golf and Yacht Club and Resort (what a mouthful) teemed with vehicles and rubberneckers. Nash found one empty slot on the grass strip near the road and we hiked across the lot to the nearest building, the Cove.
"We'll cut through to the patio and take the stairs down to the docks," said Nash.
I dug the heels of my Fendi Goldmine boots into the blacktop as best I could and shook my head. The cast and crew of Albright most likely breakfasted on the patio. The Cove abounded in bad Maizie juju. No way did I want to promenade through that restaurant with Nash watching. That patio held more traps and obstacles than the “Perilous Swamp of Torturous Terror” (Kung Fu Kate: Season One, Episode Five).
Let me clarify. No way did I want to take a chance on Vicki meeting Nash.
"Let's cut around the building instead. It's a beautiful day," I said. "Except for the whole looking for a body in the lake thing. But why not enjoy the sunshine while we can?"
"It'll take twice as long. And I can grab a coffee on my way." Nash quickened his pace to rush up the steps to the restaurant. "You're going to get plenty of sunshine all summer, Miss Albright. This is Georgia."
He bounded through the door, while I squirmed on the pavement.
Come on Maizie, I thought, what's the worst that can happen? Would Julia Pinkerton bail on her boss and possible love interest—unrequited love interests still counted in TV scripts—just to avoid seeing her mother?
Considering Julia's veterinarian mother had died in a tragic fire while rescuing guinea pigs from Drusilla DeVilla (who reappeared in Season Six to operate an illegal underground lab for testing lipstick on spider monkeys), no.
Nevertheless, Julia would never allow the potential for great humiliation and possible firing to stop her.
I adjusted my Stella McCartney shades, cocked a hip, and marched through the door, hoping the stunnas and swag would distract from the fact that I wore black leather boots in June.
The doors to the restaurant side had been closed. I passed the empty fireplace bar, spotted Nash slipping through the patio door, and halted in the doorway to scope the scene. A mix of locals and crew breakfasted on the patio. Several waved. I returned their wave and strode through the door, heartened by the absence of Vicki's entourage.
However, Alex, bartender and cutter of my Black Card, flagged me before I had completed my beeline. Figuring he wanted more napkin autographs, I called out to Nash that I'd grab coffee for us and scooted to the bar.
"Hey, Miss Maizie," Alex said, readying two mugs for coffee. "I've seen your pictures online all week. I’m really happy to see you this morning.”
“Thanks. I need these coffees to go if you don't mind."
"Look." He pulled out his phone. "I've been following you with Google Alerts. A few days ago, this popped up on Twitter. 'Maizie Albright on Black Pine Mountain. Hit and Run?' Dude, you got twelve thousand retweets with that picture."
“It wasn’t a hit-and-run.” Glancing at the photo, I recognized the stretch of road between Echo Ridge and Platinum Ridge. Also, the ripped Isabel Marant Étoile that flashed my back muffin. My heart thawed toward the social media blitzkrieg I had been ducking. The blitzkrieg was fueled by fans, after all. And some fans actually cared about me. "That's kind of sweet they’re so worried."
“E! News did a short interview with Vicki Albright and Giulio last night. Vicki said you're taking your sabbatical seriously and working hard at getting yourself back on track. And Giulio said he's living in Black Pine to show his support."
"Sabbatical? Good grief.” I shoved my heart back in the media freezer. "Don't believe a word of it. It's all PR for the show."
Alex fiddled with my bar napkin. "Uh, Maizie. Someone wants to take your picture. Is that okay?"
“I'm a little busy." I hesitated, returning my thoughts to the adoring fans who had retweeted my injuries. Didn't I owe them something for their concern? "Okay, I'll do it."
I fluffed my hair and turned, wishing for the millionth time in the past week that I’d worn something that wasn't going to put me on the year's “Worst Dressed” page. As I searched the patio of brunchers for the photographer, an unpleasant warmth crept up my spine to flush my neck. The feeling that occurs just before the realization you’ve done something asinine. Not a new feeling in the Maizie Albright repertoire, but all the same, an unpleasant one.
"I don't see the photographer." To make up for my wardrobe, I had my knee popped, my hand on my hip, and my chin lowered, ready for the picture.
"Over here, Maizie." Alex had gone around the bar to swing open a set of French doors. Photographers and reporters spilled onto the Cove patio. I watched, open-mouthed, as someone slipped Alex a wad of folded bills.
"Alex." I couldn't believe he'd do this. But then, I could. Happened plenty of times by people who knew me better than Alex.
He shrugged, pocketing the money, and walked off the patio toward the servers' kitchen entrance.
"Maizie," a reporter called. "Is it true you moved back to Georgia to avoid facing a trial? How's Oliver Fraser? Have you spoken to him since he was sentenced?"
"Maizie," another called. "Can you tell us about your recent accident? Were you really hit by a car on Black Pine Mountain?"
"Maizie, can you tell us about the new season of All is Albright? And is it true you're reprising your role as Julia Pinkerton?"
"Is Giulio living at your father's house?"
"Your father is the CEO of DeerNose. Do you support the murdering of animals fo
r sport?"
"Are you really working at Nash Security Solutions to prepare for a Julia Pinkerton movie?"
"Does living in Black Pine mean you've reconciled with your estranged father? Is it true that he refused to let you see your sister unless you quit the show?"
"Maizie. Are you still with Giulio? Are you pregnant with his baby?"
They all spoke at once, holding recorders and microphones, rattling off questions faster than I could process the words. Cameras clicked and two crews took video footage.
At the last question, I glanced at the flare in my Topshop tank covering the low-rise skinny jeans I’d fastened with a looped rubber band. Now Hollywood would believe I had snuck home to have Giulio's secret love child.
Jerry the trainer had been right about carbs kicking my ass.
I looked up and sucked in my breath.
Vicki approached in a black, floaty crepe jumpsuit with crisscross straps that accentuated her slim shoulders. She peeled off her oversized Oliver Peoples sunglasses, so the cameras could catch the Albright green eyes. Her Dior red lips pursed as she stepped in front of me.
"Vicki Albright! How do you feel about your daughter's accident/animal murder/rehab/sentencing/pregnancy? Is it true, she has to audition for the new Julia Pinkerton movie? What does it mean for the show?"
From behind me, I sensed another presence. I looked over my shoulder to see Giulio stride in and slide his hand over my biscuit bump.
While I stared dumbfounded, he smiled and leaned over to kiss my forehead.
The camera shutters whirred like artillery fire.
Vicki set me up. She probably slipped Alex a Benji to text her my arrival. How would I get out of this? Daddy would kill me, then kick me out. Nash would fire me, just to protect my pretend-unborn baby. Then Vicki would swoop in for the checkmate, creating a contract that would bind me to Albright Productions forever. I was a hair short of losing all self-respect.
Was God punishing me for all those years of taking the money and privileges for granted when I didn't want to work for them?
I sent a thought to the universe, promising to do better. Then grabbed Giulio's hand and jerked it off my stomach, careful to not let the press see me bend back his pinky.
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