Maizie Albright Star Detective 01 15 Minutes

by Larissa Reinhart

  "Julia Pinkerton’s catch phrase."

  He muttered something I didn't want to hear, so I sauntered up the dock to ready my position. I pulled on the Braves cap, placed a hand on my hip, and leaned forward, camera ready. Behind me, I heard more muttering. Whirling around, I encountered an older man, sitting on the bench of a Chris Craft launch, rooting through a large tackle box.

  "Ahoy," I said. "Did you say something?"

  "I said, you're blocking my light."

  I looked up at the sky and noted the sun's position. Overhead. Which made sense for lunchtime. "I don't understand. I'm not that tall."

  "Not the sun." He pointed across the dock to the Bayliner on the opposite side. On the bench, a woman in a bikini lay face down, sleeping. Her top was untied as to prevent tan lines. "The light bouncing off her Hawaiian Tropic oil." He grinned.

  "We're just taking a picture.” I edged toward the other side of the dock.

  "Move the other way," called Nash, waving his hand toward the pervy fisherman's boat.

  I stopped in the middle of the dock and posed again. This time, I leaned sideways to not block the Hawaiian Tropic light.

  "What kind of pose is that?" called Nash. "I thought you modeled."

  The fisherman peeled his eyes off Hawaiian Tropic. "What kind of modeling?"

  "Mostly as a child. Later it's not really considered modeling. Just marketing. A few magazine spreads."

  "Sports Illustrated swimsuit?" he asked hopefully.

  "Not SI material, but thanks." I tilted my head, placed a hand on my hip, and bent my leg.

  The Playbuoy was in view and a man was steering. I had yacht partied enough in Malibu to ascertain that cabin cruiser held a couple rooms below deck for comfortable overnight trips. Probably not necessary on a lake, but the Playbuoy looked impressive. And that's what counted on Black Pine Lake.

  Nash swung the camera toward the docking boat, letting the shutter fly.

  "I'm Hal, by the way," said the fisherman. "Now that I'm looking at you, I've seen you somewhere. Playboy?"

  "Nope." I snuck closer to Hal's boat, trying to appear in the camera frame. I crossed my ankles and stuck my thumb in my yoga pants waistband.

  "What do you call that pose?" asked Hal.

  "Chillin' like a villain.” I pretended to look into the distance, while watching the Playbuoy angle into dock. "Not appropriate for the red carpet, but good for Rodeo Drive shopping when you know the paparazzi are watching."

  Hal stood, dumping his tackle box. "I do know you. You were in Maxim's "Hot 100" for five years. Number four, forty-two, seventeen, thirty-eight, and eighty-six. Respectively."

  "Um," I twisted to glance at him over my shoulder. "That's a little weird. Only my manager remembers those kinds of numbers."

  "Maizie Albright." He slapped his thigh. "Can I get an autograph?"

  "We're a little busy. Taking pictures." Of a possible affair. Or marriage reconciliation.

  I slid closer to the dock’s edge, trying to see if the Playbuoy’s captain was David Waverly. I switched for a side pose, crossing my legs and bringing my hands up to my cap. Good for elongating the body and slimming your arms. Also good for watching a boat dock.

  The captain was David Waverly.

  Nash dropped to the dock, watching the cabin cruiser while slipping his camera in his backpack. He jerked his head at me and pointed down. I squatted next to the fishing boat and came face-to-face with Hal.

  "How about an autograph now?" asked Hal.

  I glanced at Nash, but he didn't show signs of hearing our conversation. He continued to pretend to mess with his backpack while watching the Playbuoy. David Waverly looped rope around the tie-off pilings, readying to drag the boat closer and fix the lines.

  "I might have to leave in a minute," I whispered. "We'll have to do it fast."

  "Is that your boyfriend?" asked Hal. "Kind of protective or something?"

  "Kind-of-sort-of-not," I mumbled. "Just hurry and grab a pen, please."

  Hal disappeared behind the captain's chair.

  "We don't have time for you to make friends." Nash's whisper ended in a hiss.

  "I'm not making friends. Hal keeps talking to me. And I'm trying to be inconspicuous, so I'm talking back."

  "Talking about your Maxim model career is not being inconspicuous. It's conspicuous."

  "I don't want to be rude."

  Hal returned with a Sharpie and a life preserver. "How about signing this?"

  "Sure," I grabbed the Sharpie and scribbled Maizie in big loopy letters.

  "Don't you want to personalize it?" asked Hal.

  All I knew of Hal was that he enjoyed scantily clad women. I wrote, "Hal, Take care."

  Hal frowned. "That's disappointing. For a Maxim Hot 100, I thought you'd write something sexier."

  "I was an actress, not a writer.” I grabbed the pen and wrote, "I'll make it happen" under my name. "That was my catch phrase. As Julia Pinkerton."

  "Better, but still..." Hal shrugged.

  "We need to go," said Nash.

  I scurried after Nash. We stopped behind the speed boat, waiting while David Waverly traversed Dock B. He carried a gym bag and a cooler. At the dock steps, he turned onto the cart path toward the Cove.

  "Follow him," Nash whispered. "But no more autographs. Just say no."

  "Is that rule three?" I asked.

  "Are you serious about investigation work or not? Get tough. Stop worrying about being rude."

  "I don't know if I can do that." I paused and read Nash's face. "But I'll try."

  "I'll hang back to see if Sarah Waverly is on the Playbuoy."

  "Are you sending me to the Cove to get rid of me?"

  Nash raised an eyebrow. "Miss Albright, I've been trying to get rid of you since I met you. Now I'm asking you to do something useful."

  "Oh, good." I beamed, but then sobered considering Sarah Waverly’s disappearance. "If she's not on the boat, what will we do?"

  "First I'll check the club's parking lot security footage." Nash shook his head. "If Sarah Waverly's really gone, that means someone picked her up. Could be innocent, but if she is having an affair, I somehow messed up the investigation. And in that case, David Waverly is going to have my ass."

  I contemplated that idea for a moment. I didn't like the thought of David Waverly taking Nash's ass. It might mean I wouldn't fulfill my dream of becoming a real Julia Pinkerton. But mostly, I felt worried about Nash's ass.

  Well, you know what I mean.

  Luckily, David Waverly skirted the Cove and followed another cart path around the restaurant toward the parking lot. From a corner, I watched David Waverly toss the cooler and bag into his trunk. A moment later he had taken off in his Corvette.

  I trotted back to the lake where I found Nash on the Playbuoy’s deck. I squatted on the dock and watched him root through the bench storage.

  “He took off and I wasn’t near my car to follow him,” I whispered. "Aren't you worried about someone seeing you?"

  "Hal's back to watching the sunbather and the boats on this dock are empty. I'm keeping a low profile." Nash opened another bench seat and peered inside. "The tackle is open and some of the fishing gear is dirty."

  He dropped the bench’s lid and tried the handle on the cabin door. "Locked."

  "No Sarah?”

  "She's probably been picked up at the club. I've not known Waverly to go fishing during the week, but it's not illegal. And it is Friday." Nash hopped onto the deck and we headed back to the club.

  Black Pine Lake’s beauty seemed spoiled by the sordid world of affairs and memorization of "Maxim Hot 100" numbers. I took comfort that my new career would make me known for my acumen and not my chest size or ability to chirp catch phrases on cue.

  At the club, Nash and I parted. He to the security office to review video footage of the parking lot. I would make another search for Sarah.

  An hour later, we met in the lobby.

  "Did you see who Sarah left with?"


  Nash shook his head. "Check this out."

  He pushed through the club’s front doors, and I followed him into the parking lot. We stood under the overhang that covered the drive before the front doors. Nash pointed at the camera perched on a beam facing the parking lot.

  "One camera aimed at the entrance. It only catches the first couple rows of cars. Bullshit security."

  "Did you recommend a multiple camera system with motion detectors and night vision?"

  Nash gaped at me for a beat. "I left my card.”

  I nodded.

  “Guess whose Cayenne is just outside the camera's lens?"

  My eyes focused on the lot’s far side, where the Cayenne was parked. "Wow, that's bad luck. You couldn't see who picked her up?"

  "She didn't approach the club, but that's basically all the camera can catch. I couldn't see her leave. And I can't say if another vehicle pulled in and picked her up." Nash shoved his hands in his pockets. "I need to tell you something. Miss Albright, I have some bad news."

  "About Sarah Waverly?" I feared the worst. She had been mugged in the parking lot, and I had not been there to prevent the crime. I might have even seen the perps if I hadn’t been too busy bickering with Vicki.

  Except the thieves left her purse in the Cayenne. And had not taken the Cayenne. What kind of muggers would not take a Prada or Cayenne? “Wait, what happened to Sarah?"

  "This is not about Sarah Waverly." Nash stared at his boots. His jaw flexed, whitening the scar on his chin.

  Oh hells, I thought. He's going to fire me over Hal's autograph. Or maybe he found out about the Albright crew coming to town. "I'm very serious about pursuing a career in private investigation, Mr. Nash. I'm sorry about giving Hal an autograph, but I was trying to get him to leave me alone. I have no interest in returning to TV."

  "You've already told me that." Nash looked up. "I saw something else on the security footage. It's about your car."

  "Did somebody hit my Jag? I knew I shouldn't have parked up front." I peered at the vehicles, but couldn't spot the blue convertible. "Where did I park?"

  "It's been towed."

  "Towed?" I sucked in a breath. "Vicki. She did sic the repo guys on me. Those bastards."

  "Hold on. I do skip tracing all the time. It's not their fault."

  My head drooped and my cheeks burned. "I am—”

  "No need for details. Less is more when it comes to sharing personal business. I'll run you home so you can find out what happened to your car. Then I'll hightail it back here to watch the Cayenne."

  "What are we going to do about Sarah Waverly?"

  "I have to report this to David."

  "Are you going to tell him we watched the Playbuoy?"

  Nash's lips thinned. "I'll play that by ear. See if he tells me first."

  "I should stay. I was supposed to be on Sarah Waverly duty this week. It's my fault I lost her."

  "You're not any good without a vehicle," said Nash. "Get your act together and come back tomorrow.”

  If I were writing a script, I would describe the ride to the DeerNose cabin as such: Fade in. Interior old Silverado cab, early afternoon. Wyatt Nash, 30s with Paul Newman eyes, glowery and formidable. Speaking on cellphone while driving. Maizie Albright, 25 and hungry. Trying unsuccessfully not to bite nails or twist hair.

  I would’ve preferred to ride in uncomfortable silence than listen to the conversation Nash had with David Waverly. At one point, Nash had held the phone away from his ear rather than have his eardrum burst by the explosion of Waverly's anger. After a month of watching Sarah Waverly golf and shop, the first day Nash took himself off the case, Sarah Waverly disappeared.

  Nash described it as "hinky."

  David Waverly described it as a "damned irresponsible, unpardonable, and incompetent blunder" and went on from there, adding curse words willy-nilly.

  My name was not mentioned. I didn't know if I should thank Nash or worry it meant he no longer wanted me on the case. A case I created when I offered my services to a man for whom Nash didn't want to work. I wouldn't blame Nash for firing me. But I certainly did not want to be fired. I wanted to help Mr. Nash and undo my rash offer. I also had a Julia Pinkerton dream to fulfill. And there was the requirement to hold a steady job by terms of my probation. Plus, it would be nice to prove I could do this. That I didn’t have to rely on Vicki for a career.

  Maybe rub that in to Vicki, too. When she finally moved back to LA. Which would hopefully be soon.

  But primarily, I needed to help Mr. Nash.

  Nash hung up and tossed the phone into a cup holder. He stared into the windshield like he was counting every tree lining the long, wooded drive to the DeerNose cabin. "David Waverly could ruin me. He wants to ruin me. Will make it much easier to buy me out that way, I guess."

  "What can I do?" I had not forgotten Jolene Sweeney wanted to sell Nash's business to the Black Pine Group. I’d screwed up Nash's life in more ways than one. My belly reminded me by recreating that feeling you get on Space Mountain at the peak of the last hill before you start spinning around the star room.

  Nash sighed. "Nothing for now. I'm headed back to the club. Maybe someone saw her leave."

  "Maybe a friend picked her up to go shopping." Without her purse.

  "More likely she knew I was following her and arranged to meet her lover when she knew I wasn't watching." He parked and slammed his fist into the steering wheel. "Sumbitch."

  I stayed quiet, watching a passel of Jack Russell terriers charge around the side of the cabin and dance across the driveway, yipping at Nash's Silverado.

  Nash turned to me. "For a month, Sarah Waverly has not varied in her routine. Every morning she drops off a lunch at her husband's office before he arrives. Then she goes to the club, shopping, or back home. He goes to the gym first thing followed by a stop for breakfast. Every blasted day. And today? She takes off and he goes fishing."

  "Hinky," I said, testing out Nash Security lingua franca. "She worked on the DeerNose Charity Ball. I'll ask Daddy what he knows about her while I see about getting a new set of wheels."

  Nash sighed. "Don't know what good it will do, but might as well."

  I chalked that statement up to "you're not fired." Yet.

  nine

  #DeerNoseKing #TrustFundTurnOffs

  My father, Boomer Spayberry—a.k.a. the DeerNose King—married Carol Lynn—a.k.a. the sweetest woman in the world—midway through Julia Pinkerton's third season. We don't pretend Carol Lynn's my stepmom, although I had often wished for a stepmom, or any kind of mother, just like Carol Lynn. She had been raised with the strap, the Bible, and fried chicken. Carol Lynn cooked from scratch. She could also hunt and fish. And she never reads trades, tabloids, or even watches E! news. Or any E! at all.

  Carol Lynn was the complete and total opposite of Vicki and my father loved her for it. He also loved their offspring—born before my first season of rehab—Remington Marie Spayberry. Named her after his favorite gun. Something Vicki would never have given him a chance in hell of doing.

  Carol Lynn thought it cute, naming her daughter after a rifle. So was little Remi. Cute. And as fiery as her namesake.

  Remi sat next to me at the wooden table carved from a great pine felled on my daddy's property. The entire house and furniture were created from those once living on Spayberry property.

  And we're not talking a little cabin in the woods, as Vicki liked to pretend. We're talking five thousand square feet with nine-foot ceilings and a giant sun deck stretching across the back, with a view of Black Pine Lake through a mess of trees. The decor consisted of antlers, glass-eyed animal heads, and quilts. Made by Carol Lynn, naturally. The quilts, not the taxidermy.

  When DeerNose started up and Daddy poured everything into the business, he survived on local fishing and hunting. What is caught and hunted was still a culinary mainstay in the Spayberry house. "The Spayberrys have always lived off the land," Daddy had oft-quoted. Lucky for me, it's all lean meat. But even better, Car
ol Lynn cooks with real lard and butter.

  Evidenced by my straining Gucci seams, as Vicki's discerning eye had noticed.

  "What're you doing? Daddy says y'all's supposed to stay away from those social sites," said Remi, peering at my computer screen. She shook a lock of hair from her eyes and slid off her knee-sit to poke her head under the table. "Just a minute, girl."

  "I know what Daddy and the judge said. I'm not doing social media. Haven't checked it since I left California. Not even Tumblr.” I switched the screen from Sarah Waverly’s Pinterest page to the Edgar report on the Black Pine Group.

  A Jack Russell terrier, one of a half-dozen that roamed the property, had his paws on Remi's spindly thigh. His nose hovered below a spoonful of banana pudding Remi held above his mouth.

  "Speak," said Remi.

  The dog barked and received pudding. Remi stirred her bowl, took a bite, and fed another spoonful to the dog.

  "That's really gross," I said.

  "She's not the one who eats poo." Remi fed another heaping of pudding to the dog. "Her mouth's got less germs than people's. That's what Daddy says."

  "Still gross. Your six-year-old butt is too skinny. You need to eat your own food. Besides, pudding is probably bad for dogs."

  "She ate a bag of Hershey's kisses and that's supposed to be real bad for dogs. Banana pudding ain't going to do nothing to her." Remi scratched the dog’s head. "Anyway, I'm not hungry. What're you doing?"

  "Looking for a new car." I felt it prudent not to mention investigating a local man and his possibly philandering wife.

  "Why? I liked your blue car."

  "I couldn't afford it anymore."

  "Are you broke because your momma stole your TV show?"

  "Where'd you hear that?"

  Remi shrugged.

  "Actually Remi, the TV show is all hers. I only agreed to guest appearances to make Vicki happy. Even if she didn't appreciate my effort. Or understand I meant the appearances as more of a cameo role. Like the crew might catch me as I left the house. That sort of thing."

  "Uncle Bud says Miss Vicki sold your soul to the devil and she kept all the money."