“Hello, Lamar." I pulled off my helmet and held it against my hip. It helped to draw attention away from the rim of belly that had squeezed out of the leather waistband.
"Well, now," said Lamar. "Playing Charlie's Angels today?"
"I need to apologize to Mr. Nash." I jerked my head toward his door. "Is he in?"
"Jolene's in there with him."
I sucked in a breath. "If she wants Black Pine Group to sell Nash Security Solutions, how does the David Waverly business affect that sale? Help or hurt?"
"I doubt Black Pine Group would touch him now. Even if Ed still pushed it for Jolene's sake."
"That's what I thought. But that's good, right? Nash didn't want to sell."
"But the other half does. He's losing clients over this mess. She may end up buying him out."
"Jolene would be Nash's boss?"
"She'd sell it under a new name. Nash would never work for Jolene. Bad enough partnering with her." Lamar cranked the chair up to sitting. "I told that kid not to marry her, but he was in dumbstruck love. At the time, he was hungry for something like her. He learned the hard way."
Marry Jolene? My wounded bird syndrome struck a record high. I was dying to get details on their ruined marriage—what was "something like her" anyway?—but I refrained. For now. Poor, poor broken-hearted Nash. "I need to help him."
"Then what're you doing standing around here? Apologies ain't going to help Nash. Get to it, girl."
"But the police said we aren't allowed to do anything with this case. We're suspects. And they could arrest us for obstruction."
"I doubt that stops Nash. He's on a mission to find the truth. This isn't just about saving his name and business. A woman disappeared on his watch and he can't live with that."
"But I'm on probation." The excuse sounded lame in the face of Nash's mission.
"I suppose you need to decide how much you want to help Nash. He sure wouldn't want you to jeopardize your probation."
"Don't tell him. I'm going for it." I turned toward the door, then looked back at Lamar. "Actually, I've got no idea what to do. That's why I need training. I don't have any equipment either."
"You don't need equipment. I know you've got a brain. I keep reminding Nash there's no body. Yet."
"You think Sarah's not in the lake?"
"Hard to say. Pretty foxy of David Waverly to throw off a murder by having Nash follow her in the first place."
"Hinky," I said. Then blushed at the look Lamar gave me. I guess we weren't allowed to share catch phrases. "So maybe I should try to figure out if David Waverly is capable of that level of malevolence. Or maybe Sarah really was abducted. Maybe David Waverly had an enemy. Who, for some reason, has chosen not to reveal themselves yet."
"There you go," said Lamar. "You already studied the victim a good bit. Now learn more about the main suspect."
"Tell Mr. Nash I'm on it.” I shot him with my finger, Julia Pinkerton-style. "I'll make it happen."
I will not explain the look Lamar gave me.
I honed my David Waverly focus on his golf buddies, which meant a return to the Black Pine Club, fast becoming a hotspot for a non-member like myself. Today I would banish Maizie Albright to the wings and stay in character. Full-on Julia Pinkerton. Before entering the club, I did some quick acting warmups to grab the essence of Julia. A few yodels, ten deep breaths, and five squats. With some difficulty in the leather pants.
Feeling better, I breezed into the clubhouse. Ignoring the "Members Only" sign, I pushed through the lounge's heavy door. Wood paneling, overstuffed leather sofas, and polished stone and granite topped coffee tables packed the room, all backdropped by two-story windows that overlooked the lake.
Behind the bar, a handsome Latino man nodded. I gave him a cool, Julia half-smile and checked out the room. Two elderly gents in plaid pants and pastel polos sat in club chairs, holding the Atlanta paper within squinting view. Even at this distance, I could see the headline, "ALBRIGHT PRODUCTION TALKS WITH BLACK PINE CITY." Even better, the upper fold photo featured a grainy shot of Giulio and I in another clincher.
“Frigatastic,” I said, faltering back to Maizie. Daddy wouldn't miss that one. He had the AJC delivered to the office.
While I reeled from headline shock, the lounge door opened, producing a burst of Chanel No. 5. My olfactory behavioral conditioning immediately sent my stomach rolling. Sweat broke out on my neck. A certain sphincter tightened. A half-second later, I once again faced Vicki.
“There you are,” she said.
“How did you know I was here?” I sucked in a breath. “Did you microchip me during my last teeth whitening treatment?”
“Really, Maizie.” She patted her Saint Laurent Sac de Jour bag. “I have the new contract.”
“I’m sort of working now? I’ll get back to you?”
Vicki glanced at the golfers, took in the AJC headline, and looked back at me. A half-smile curled her Dior Diablotine lips. “Oh, my. Front page. How did I miss that?”
Vicki missed nothing.
“I suppose that won’t help your case much.” She sighed and smoothed the nonexistent wrinkles on her Diane von Furstenberg sheath. “I meant your probation case. Not your detective case.”
My mouth dropped open.
“Flies, Maizie.” Vicki checked her polish—Also Dior. Victoire red.—then blasted me with her sea glass greens. “Now, about the contract.”
“How can you be so underhanded?”
“You can’t expect a press conference to not make the paper.”
“That picture’s not from the press conference.” I lowered my voice. “That was taken at my college graduation party. The one I wasn’t allowed to have due to my probation requirements. But you threw anyway.”
She shrugged. “We were competing with Billionaire Kids of Chicago.”
“I’m trying to investigate a missing woman. I don’t have time for your publicity stunts. Shouldn’t a possible murder take precedent over a reality show?”
Her brows flickered. “If only you could have applied such dramatic flair to the movie, Her Last Prom. Maybe it would have done better in ratings.”
“You said nothing would have helped that movie.”
“I was speaking as your manager.” The cat grin dissolved into a pout. “I’m speaking as your mother.”
I felt my face get squinchy and adjusted before she could comment.
She flipped her wrist and examined her Rolex. “I’m late for a meeting. The contract?”
“No.” I crossed my arms over my chest.
“Don’t do that unless your biceps are toned.”
I dropped my arms.
Also my dignity.
“Maizie, things can get worse.” She spun toward the door. “Get a phone. Then call me.”
O.M.G. She had shifted tactics. Was she threatening me?
As my manager? Or my mother?
Which was worse?
While I chewed my lip, the bartender approached with a "May I help you?" and an "Are you a member?”
I said something about needing a drink. And fried pickles. Then amended my request to coffee and a paper.
I needed Julia back, but Maizie had really thrown me off.
I followed him to the bar, slid on a barstool, and flipped through the Atlanta Journal Constitution to the lifestyles section. I sipped the coffee and scanned the article. Which didn't report much more than the headline. Except for getting the dates of my last rehab stint and Oliver's parole hearing wrong.
"Is that you?" The bartender pointed to the photo.
I sighed and nodded.
The bartender smiled. "I'm Ramón. You want a splash of whiskey in your coffee? That's what those two are doing." He nudged his chin toward the men who had dropped their papers to watch us.
"Better not, but thank you." I pushed the newspaper away. "Do you always work in the lounge?"
"No, I float. Sometimes I wait tables here and at the Cove. I think I've seen you there."
"I can't seem to avoid the Cove. Do you know David Waverly?"
"Sure, he's here a lot."
"What do you think of his wife disappearing?"
"Maybe she took off. I can't imagine someone kidnapping her. That kind of thing doesn't happen in Black Pine." Ramón shrugged. "They seem wealthy, though. Was there a ransom note?"
"Not that I've heard. You don't think David could have done it?" I trailed off, hoping Ramón would follow.
He didn't follow.
"Did you see David Waverly last weekend?"
"Let me think." Ramón tapped his fingers, his gaze searching the ceiling. "Saturday night, I worked the Cove. Patio. Waverly had dinner outside but went into the fireplace bar later. Had someone with him."
"A woman or a man?"
“Woman. They played it cool at the bar, sat in a corner so it wouldn't appear they were together, but still..." He smirked. “However, we’re not supposed to talk about guests."
"Of course. Wouldn't be prudent to spread the hanky panky." I winked, while internally I seethed. How dare David Waverly publicly drink with his side piece when his wife had gone missing? He zipped to the top of my main suspect list. Not that I had any other suspects. Yet.
"I think they were doing business. Your mind matches your picture, you know? Looks a little dirty." Ramón laughed. "They were having a drink and chatting, but probably didn't want anyone to know. It happens enough here."
"You don't want to tell me who he met?” Julia had returned and had tipped her head back to meet Ramón's gaze. "You know my secrets now."
"I don't know all your secrets. Only the ones I read in the headlines." His smile turned saucy. "And from that photo, it looks like you've got some good ones."
I dialed Julia back a notch. "Who does David Waverly hang out with here?”
“Can’t say, but he always plays Texas hold ’em on Sundays with his buddies. The hospitality office likes to take pictures of that kind of thing to put in the newsletter.” He winked. "Catch my drift?"
"Caught it." I shot him my coquettish Vogue smile. "Thanks."
"Good luck with Hospitality. How about a picture together? Like the one in the paper?" Ramón laughed at my reaction. "Just kidding."
I left the lounge feeling good about my detecting skills and headed toward the hospitality office. Behind the hospitality counter, a woman in an aqua Black Pine Club blazer tried to calm a knot of arguing retirement-aged women dressed in golf togs.
The woman in the blazer had a cat pin and red readers hanging around her neck. She was not in Julia's demographic. Her shoulder length bob looked rumpled, like she had dragged her hands through her hair too many times that morning. Judging by the argument among the ladies' golf group, she’d probably been massaging a growing headache.
"Can I help you?" she asked, approaching the counter.
"Hi, I'm Maizie Albright," I said. "I heard the club has poker games every Sunday. Does someone in hospitality take pictures?"
When she nodded, I asked if I could see them.
"Are you a member?"
"Not exactly." I offered my Tiger Beat smile. Winsome, wholesome.
She wasn't impressed. "Club pictures are for private use of our members."
"I'm not going to use the pictures. I want to see who's in them."
She shook her head.
Behind her, the argument grew louder. A woman wearing diamonds on much of her person grabbed an armful of aqua blazer. "Christine, this is ludicrous. Grace always does the Tuesday Tees write-up. Tell Harriet she's being ridiculous."
"Grace got my group's score wrong and she misquoted Janet,” said Harriet.
Christine forced a smile. "Just a moment, ladies." She turned back to me. "Anything else?"
I spoke past Christine to Harriet and Diamonds. "Tuesday Tees? Wasn't Sarah Waverly in your group? Wasn't she treasurer at one time?"
“Yes.” Diamonds’ brows rose fractionally and she dropped Christine's arm. "Do you know Sarah? You probably haven't heard what's happened to her."
“Unfortunately, I read about it in the paper. Why did Sarah drop out of your group?"
Harriet rolled her eyes. "She said she was too busy. Doing what, I don't know. We could've used her help. Our new treasurer has made a mess of the accounting. Can't seem to find enough to cover the banquet costs, so we're going to have to charge this year."
"That's too bad," I said. "When was the last time you saw Sarah?"
Harriet looked at Diamonds. "Didn't we see her last week?"
A voice piped up behind Christine. "We saw her about a week ago. We were on the lake course's eighth green. She was on the Playbuoy.”
"Was she fishing?" I asked.
"No. On her laptop.” A shrunken woman who had survived a number of eye lifts and a lip injection pushed her way to the counter. "And she didn't wave."
"Maybe she didn't see you."
"Nothing should impede a wave. It's a simple gesture. And polite. There are rules."
"Politeness is very important," I said, unsure about the rules of waving. "Did you happen to see her on Friday? She arrived at the club around nine thirty in the morning, but I'm not sure what happened to her after that."
"No. And if I do see her again, I do not plan to say hello. And who might you be?”
"Maizie Albright."
"I know you," said Harriet. "Aside from your Hollywood shenanigans, I mean. Your father is a Spayberry and your mother was Miss Black Pine some thirty years ago."
"Yes, ma'am. In 1985, I believe."
"She tried to compete twice. Which isn't done."
"I remember that," said Diamonds. "After she didn't win Miss Georgia. We sponsored her. The Black Pine Club, I mean. When she competed for Miss Georgia."
"I'm sorry about the divorce," said Harriet. "It's a shame she didn't let you come home for the season."
"Season?"
"Cotillion, dear. You could have used the lessons with that parentage. But as your mother was a former Miss Black Pine, you would have been guaranteed an invite."
"I think I was doing Kung Fu Kate at the time," I said.
"Why doesn't your daddy join the club?" asked Eye Lifts, spinning us away from Vicki's dubious parenting. Or was it parentage?
"He's not a club type of person."
"Nonsense. It's about supporting the town."
"I think he feels he's supporting the town by supplying jobs at DeerNose. Ma'am."
"That boy had a lot of potential," said Diamonds. I assumed it had been a while since she saw Boomer Spayberry, who looked no more a boy than I did. "All-State in football. Georgia Bulldog. He had hustle. Especially for a little backwoods Spayberry."
"Yes, ma'am." Daddy was still backwoods, but he was also CEO of a company regularly seen in Forbes. Which, I suppose, didn't mean much if you didn't belong to the club.
"Are you going to join the club?" asked Harriet.
"Right now, I'm just looking for Sarah Waverly.” Then realized in a sudden burst of inspiration that Maizie Albright might have some leverage with her odd parentage. "Although I'd love to see some club activities. How about showing me pictures from yesterday's Texas hold 'em?"
"Christine," snapped Diamonds. "Pull up the pictures on your computer."
"But," said Christine, "the rules..."
"She said she's going to become a member," said Eye Lifts. "Let her look. Maizie Spayberry is Boomer Spayberry's and a former Miss Black Pine's daughter."
Christine ran her hands through her hair to squeeze the back of her neck.
"You need shiatsu," I said. "Works wonders. And if you have a cocktail first, you'll be really relaxed."
We settled in front of Christine's computer, the elder debs and I, and paged through photo after photo of mostly men sitting around green cloth tables, smoking cigars, and drinking from cut glass tumblers. Ramón wasn't kidding when he said they took pictures. The club was snap happy at commemorating their members' activities. I learned this as I sat through fifty-three photos of the Tuesday
Tees and the Ladies' Tennis before I could look at the Sunday night poker game.
If you were wondering, poker photos are not very interesting. But I had evidence that David Waverly did indeed play poker. Interestingly enough, so did Ed Sweeney. And Jolene Sweeney.
"These are all club members?" I pointed to the men and Jolene sitting with David Waverly. "Do you know them?"
"Of course," said Diamonds. "That's William Dixon, David Waverly, and Ed Sweeney. The Dixons owned the first mercantile store in the county. Now, Ed Sweeney—his family is not from this county. I believe they are from Augusta. He works with David Waverly and Bill Dixon. The Waverlys are also not from Black Pine originally. We're getting more and more of those."
In California, people spoke in similar tones about the immigrant communities. However, instead of chafing about the Guatemalan yard guy, these women were talking about some rich, white dudes from Augusta living on Platinum Ridge. I couldn't wrap my brain around it.
"Do you know Jolene Sweeney?" Just out of curiosity and not because any five degrees of separation from Wyatt Nash fascinated me.
Which it did.
Diamonds and Harriet exchanged a thoughtful gaze, trying to place Jolene Sweeney.
Eye Lift spoke first. "The real estate girl. Always at the Cove. She doesn't play league golf."
"Of course," said Diamonds. "Pretty, young redhead. Moved up from Atlanta, I believe. Although she was raised here. Miss Black Pine 2007, but we did not sponsor her."
"Don't y'all have a tee time?" asked Christine, who had been slugging coffee in the corner. She looked in desperate need of some peace. And a massage. Possibly a Xanax.
I recognized the cue to leave. I had gotten what I needed. A new name to interview. And an ex-wife of Nash's to interrogate. I mean question. "Christine, I need to make a call. Is there a phone I could use?"
"You're not a member, so I can't let you use my office phone." She paused, clearly torn between getting rid of me and breaking rules. “But there's a privacy box for cell phones in the lobby. You can take my cell phone in there. Return it when you're done."
"Thank you, Christine." I lifted the hinged section in the counter and scooted into the hall. "And thank you, ladies. Nice to meet you."
Eye Lift waved. I made sure to wave back.
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