Maizie Albright Star Detective 01 15 Minutes

by Larissa Reinhart

"I thought you were trapped inside, so I drove up and asked Waverly if I could speak to him. Criminy, it's been almost an hour. I was headed out, thinking I'd have to get back in later tonight to look for you." Nash studied me, then wiped his thumb across my cheek. "Dammit, you're bleeding. First you get socked in the nose and now this. I don't think you're cut out for this business."

  I jerked back a sob and shoved it in my “cry later” repository. “I’m totally cut out for this. I escaped out back, but landed in the next subdivision, Echo Ridge. Only a mishap."

  "Mishap? You look like you tussled with a cement truck." He placed a hand on my elbow and led me down the steps to the truck.

  "Where's Mr. Waverly?"

  “Hopefully not calling the police." Nash opened the passenger door and pulled my elbow toward the cab. "Get in the truck. Please. And hurry."

  I scrambled into the cab and waited for Nash to climb in and back out the driveway. "What happened?"

  "Look, I don't think it's a good idea for you to be involved anymore. Especially after I had you watch Sarah Waverly when the case, for all intents and purposes, was complete. This could get ugly."

  "But I'm already involved.” My panic-stricken words slew forth faster than a Ventura County mudslide. I couldn’t be taken off the case now, not with Sarah Waverly’s life at stake and Vicki circling my career carcass. “I was almost eaten by a dog today. Not to mention my nails." I flashed the jagged, dirty bits of keratin that were once long, polished finger accessories.

  "Miss Albright." Nash held up a hand.

  "I know. TMI. But I've already plunged in. You can't yank me off the case now."

  "I can do what I damn well please. The shop is still mostly mine. For now."

  "What happened?"

  Nash sighed. "I tried to explain what happened this morning but things heated quickly. He accused me of something and I accused him of something."

  "Did he accuse you of having an affair with his wife when you were supposed to be watching her?"

  "Dammit." Nash punched the steering wheel. "I did no such thing."

  "Fine," I said. "What did you accuse him of? Murdering his wife?"

  He turned to glare at me. "Not in so many words. But I did suggest he might have chased her off. You know what he said? Last night, he told Sarah about hiring and firing me. Thinking she might confess something."

  "He didn't fire you, you quit. And I thought we had agreed I would be doing surveillance this week."

  "He might have been trying to get a rise out of me. But if Sarah was waiting for an opportunity to leave, she might have thought she was in the clear."

  "Or they got in a big fight in the parking lot and something happened. When she was at Black Pine Group, she was overheard telling David they'd talk at the club."

  We quieted for a moment, our thoughts picking over possibilities.

  "Are you going to tell me why you were in such a hurry to leave?" I asked.

  "I told you our conversation heated up."

  "How?"

  Nash sighed. "He made an ungentlemanly remark."

  "About Sarah?" I watched his reaction, wondering if Nash had really gotten involved with Sarah.

  "About you."

  "Oh." I switched my gaze to the road to hide my blush. "What did he say?"

  “Let's just put this in the TMI box, Miss Albright. I'll pick up your bike and take you home."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "My name and reputation are on the line now. I have to know what happened to Sarah Waverly." Nash glared at the windshield. "Maybe she ran. Maybe he did something to her. I've got to know."

  As did I. And not just because my future was tied to Nash’s office and private investigation’s license. But because that papaya Prada purse made me fear the worse. I’d lost a woman.

  Nash could take me home, but I wasn't taking myself off the case.

  thirteen

  #BurlesqueMama #LikeABoss

  After picking up Lucky and tossing her in the back of the Silverado, Nash jerked to a stop before the DeerNose cabin, chucked Lucky and me to the gravel, and took off before the Jack Russells had a chance to nip his tires.

  Remi watched the proceedings from the porch. She jumped off a rocker, leaving it to lurch and crash against the pine wall, and scuttled into the drive to check my newest fashion creation.

  "You missed dinner," she said. "Daddy caught some bass. I hid mine in a napkin for you and left it on your bed."

  I winced. "I appreciate the thought, but the fridge would have worked."

  "Daddy ain't going to like this.” She fingered my rent t-shirt. "He said there's a reason why drawers are called 'underwear.’ You should've heard what he said about that one dress you wore out in Cal-i-for-nia. Every time we went to the store, Daddy'd see your picture on a magazine cover and he'd turn purple. He looked just like a muscadine."

  "You can't see my drawers. That's my bra. And people show those all the time. It’s practically an accessory. Besides, I didn't rip it on purpose. A dog did that."

  "Well, that's different. What kind of dog?"

  "A big one with big teeth."

  "Your life is so exciting." She ran a hand over Lucky's kelly green seat. "I wish you'd take me on a stakeout."

  "When you're bigger." I ran my hand through her scruffy brown locks and admired the natural golden highlights glinting in the setting sun. "When I finally get my own private investigator office, I'll contract you for surveillance duties."

  She beamed a gap-toothed smile at me. "Can I ride Lucky, too?"

  "Remi, I would love to give you Lucky. As soon as I get on my feet, I'm going to get a new car. Another convertible. Maybe even a green one." I spoke with confidence to convince myself. Power of positive thinking and all that. "Riding Lucky through town is not as much fun as you'd think. She makes my butt burn. But for now, I'll make do. I need to shower and change my clothes, then I'm taking Lucky out again."

  "If you don't like riding Lucky, why don't you get that Mr. Nash to drive you around some more?"

  "No can do, Remisita."

  "Don't you like Mr. Nash?"

  "This has nothing to do with whether I like Mr. Nash or not."

  "Then why do you get that funny smile when I say his name?"

  "I don't have a funny smile." I folded my arms at Remi's bouncy yes-you-do nod. "Anyway, I don't want him to know I'm going out tonight to continue my investigation."

  "You're fibbing to Mr. Nash."

  "Not exactly fibbing," I said. "I messed up and now I've got to fix something. I'll tell him after it's fixed."

  Remi slid me a cool look. "When I do that, I usually get in more trouble."

  As I exfoliated off the garden dirt and dog drool, I tried not to dwell on Remi’s parting shot and turned my thoughts toward the investigation. David Waverly looked suspicious, but suspicious meant nothing without evidence. Upon learning David fired Nash, Sarah could have made a break for it. Nash looked a teeny bit suspicious, too. Or tenderhearted, which seemed very un-Nash-like, but what did I really know about the man?

  Maybe I needed to know more about the man.

  I thought about all the ways I might like to know him, then sluiced cold water over my body.

  While I glossed my lips with NARS in Super Orgasm—after all, it was Friday night—I decided on a plan of action. Nash would focus his attention on Sarah Waverly tonight, probably interrogating the maid service and scouring her credit card and phone records again. I wanted to do something. Maybe canvass the neighbors. Which would be difficult for a Friday night in LA, but this was Georgia. Daddy and Carol Lynn stayed home on Friday nights and got up early on Saturday mornings to shoot things or fish or drive their ATVs.

  I know. Weird.

  I donned another t-shirt and jeans ensemble. At this rate, my Black Pine wardrobe changes were rivaling Kung Fu Kate's.

  Hector was not working the Platinum Ridge guard house. Tonight's Guardian of the Platinum Gates was an elderly man who studied Lucky before exa
mining me.

  "Mr. Deevers," I said, reading his name off his badge. "How are you?"

  "I heard Maizie Albright was riding around on a motorcycle. That's not a motorcycle."

  "No, this would be Lucky, the dirt bike." I offered him my Whitening Strips smile. "I guess you recognized me."

  He held up the Black Pine Gazette. My eyes dropped to the picture below the banner. Giulio and I playing tongue tag at the Cove. The caption read, "Hollywood Returns to Black Pine: Maizie Albright Back to Business?"

  "Oh boy," I said, "I don't remember Giulio's hand on my butt. It looks bad, doesn't it?"

  "The article says you drive a motorcycle. That's not a motorcycle."

  "I'm sorry to tell you the media often gets the story wrong." I paused, waiting for the scathing remark about my public indecency.

  Which didn't come.

  Either Black Pine was full of creepers or Deevers had an obsession with Kawasaki's. "So, can I go in?"

  "Where you headed?" Deevers shook off the bike drama and picked up his clipboard. "It's pretty late."

  "For a Friday? It's not even eleven." Having done my homework, I gave him Bethann Bergh's name. The one Granite Curve neighbor who was home on a Friday night and willing to talk to me.

  "It's late for any night." Deevers penned my name and Lucky's tiny license plate number on his clipboard. "But suit yourself."

  "Mr. Deevers, that list shows the time and vehicle whenever someone goes into Platinum Ridge, right?"

  He nodded.

  "Can I see the list?"

  "I can show you when you came in." He thumbed through the papers. "You've been here a lot today. Different vehicles, too. Are you sure you don't have a motorcycle?"

  "I know when I came in. I want to see who else drove in earlier today. Starting around nine-thirty in the morning."

  If someone had picked up Sarah Waverly, they might have brought her home for her things, thereby explaining the Prada bag in the car. Perhaps she didn't like the Prada and wanted to exchange it. Can't account for tastes.

  Deevers shook his head. "I can't show you the list. There's video, too. But only Mark Jacobs can give you permission."

  "Marc Jacobs?" I blinked. "The designer?"

  "Mark Jacobs at Community Management. He's head of security for all their properties. I'd need permission from him."

  I briefly wondered if Mark Jacobs of Community Management also liked bags—he’d probably understand my dismay over the Prada—then got on with the task of keeping Lucky upright while moving.

  At Bethann Bergh's house, I parked in the driveway but sat for a long minute to study the house across the street. The exterior lighting bathed the Waverly house in a golden glow. If David Waverly was home, he kept the lights low. Maybe Sarah came home and they were having a sexy reunion.

  Or David was slouched in bed with a gin and tonic, watching his wedding video and mourning the should-have-dones and why-didn’t-I’s.

  Or maybe David Waverly was getting rid of evidence. Or a body.

  I shivered and honed in on the itty-bitty camera planted by the Waverly mailbox. If David left or Sarah showed, Nash would see it. I hopped from Lucky and sped to the house, eager to talk to Bethann. I leaned on the bell. The locks on the door tumbled.

  An older woman in a flowing, filmy nightgown and matching red robe opened the door. Her blonde hair was teased and piled behind a delicate tiara that didn't go with her jet chandelier earrings. The red kitten heel slippers had fuzzy, fake fur trim. She pinched a martini glass between two fingers.

  I had wandered into the set of Valley of the Dolls. Or possibly Peyton's Place.

  "Bethann Bergh?"

  "Maizie Albright," she shrieked. "Come in, girl." She waved me inside. A fur-lined handcuff dangled from the non-martini wrist.

  I eyeballed that handcuff and shuffled a step back.

  The person attached to the handcuff was the only neighbor willing to talk to me. I needed something to bring to Nash. Any little tidbit that might persuade him to keep me on the investigation.

  The hells.

  Mincing over the threshold, I stopped at the entrance to her living room. Her decorator had made an interesting choice with the whole “Pretty Little Liars meets Vampire Diaries." Velvet curtains pooled under the tall, Georgian windows. Candles flickered from all flat surfaces, including the fireplace mantle. A round divan had been covered in black satin with electric purple pillows.

  She pointed to the divan.

  I chose a wooden chair with a red velvet cushion.

  "Can I offer you a cocktail?" Bethann swept her hand toward a cart packed with decanters and a silver ice bucket. The little cuff swung back and smacked her wrist. She dropped her arm, wiggling her fingers.

  “No, thank you." I smiled. "I just wanted to ask you about your neigh—”

  "Let's get started." Bethann circled the divan, then attempted to crawl on top of it. She held out her martini glass. "Do you mind setting this down?"

  I stared for a good three seconds, considered bailing, then stood to retrieve her glass and placed it on the cart.

  "How would you like me?" She growled and pawed the air, then sat up on her knees. "I can do kinky. Or play it safe with plain old sexy." Dropping a shoulder, she wiggled until the robe slid down her arm. She arched an eyebrow and pouted.

  I had to remind myself to blink.

  "Maybe you like crazy?" She hopped to her feet and shimmied while belting out the chorus to Viva Las Vegas.

  "Definitely don't like crazy,” I interrupted.

  "Gotcha." The shimmy halted. "Just tell me what you want. I can do something else."

  "I think I've got the wrong house." God, I thought, LA had enough freaks. Who knew Georgia was chock full of sex maniacs?

  "Wait," she said. "Let me try something else."

  "Please don't." I backed toward the door, hoping I could unlock it.

  "Is it my age?" She gripped her throat. "I don't mind the face nip and tucks, but I don't know how to get rid of the neck lines. Do you know somebody who does that? I'll fly to California."

  "What? No. Listen, there's some kind of miscommunication here. I wanted to talk to you about the Waverlys."

  She cocked her head. "The Waverlys? Are they doing this, too?"

  "Dear God, I hope not." I held up my hands. "I don't know what you're doing, but let's not involve anyone else."

  "Just give me some direction. I'll do whatever you say. I've been in the Piners for years."

  I curled my lip at the name of her sex club. "I'm sure you have. There's been some confusion. I know you hear a lot of things about Hollywood, but I'm not into this.” I kept my hands up as I edged toward the front door. "Not judging."

  "But I want you to judge."

  "Oh, please no. I'm going now."

  "I'm sorry." She rushed to the door and threw herself against it, raising her arm. The cuff dangled over her head. "I overplayed the kinky. When I heard you wanted the sexy neighbor, I just thought I'd go for it. I don't have to do kinky."

  "Why would I want a sexy neighbor? I live with my father." Realization struck me like a riding crop smacking a naughty bottom. "Wait. Who told you I needed a sexy neighbor?"

  Bethann dropped her arm and leaned against the door. "It's advertised in Atlanta Extras, but I heard about it through my theater group, The Piners. They're looking for 'original, quirky locals' to give the reality show some authenticity."

  “Dammit. Vicki,” I mumbled, then gave Bethann an apologetic smile. "Sorry, I'm not doing All is Albright. And I have no control over casting anyway."

  "Do you want my headshot? Even if you don't do casting, maybe you could slip it to a producer?"

  I reached for the doorknob.

  "What if I tell you about the Waverlys?"

  I thought about the wasted night, poor Sarah Waverly, and my boss having his ass served on an expensive platter by David Waverly. And Vicki auditioning sexy neighbors for my return to the small screen. How did she keep inserting herself
in my investigations? “You tell me everything you know about the Waverlys. And I will give Vicki your headshot."

  Bethann skipped down the hall, her kitten heels pattering like machine gun fire on the tile. Before she flew through the door at the end, she turned. "Are you coming? I'll make us a pot of tea and some cheese straws while I dish on the Waverlys."

  At the mention of cheese straws, I hurried after her.

  Two hours later, I stumbled out Bethann's front door, clutching her head shot. For once, I felt glad to drive Lucky, only for the night air smacking my face on the ride home. Bethann didn't give me much information, but "not much was better than nothing" as the director of Hell is for Children (a straight-to-video comedy-horror), loved to remind me. When my feet hit Bethann's driveway, I rubbed my eyes, checked the dim drive again, and glanced around the dark street.

  Hells to the shizzle.

  Someone had stolen Lucky. I plunked my hands on my hips and marched down the driveway. What was wrong with Black Pine, Georgia?

  At the end of the block, a pickup cranked its engine, circled the cul-de-sac, and drove to stop in front of Bethann's house. The Silverado’s window zipped down. I couldn't see the man inside, but I certainly felt the pissiness emanating from the truck.

  "You stole my bike?" I folded my arms over my chest. "What are you doing here?"

  "Funny, I was wondering the same about you." The driver door popped and a moment later, Nash stood, towering over me. "I distinctly remember telling you to stay off this case. I thought you said you took direction well."

  "I'm improvising."

  "Get in the truck. I'm taking you home."

  I tilted my chin and smiled to counteract his glare. "I have my own transportation. I was going to visit you in the morning and deliver notes on my interview with Bethann Bergh. You don't need to babysit me."

  "That scooter is not transportation. It's one in the morning. I'm taking you home." His jaw popped with the grind of his teeth. "I'd hate to think of tomorrow's picture in the paper. Not that your splatter outline on Highway 16 would be any less grisly than that picture of you groping Giulio Belloni."