Maizie Albright Star Detective 01 15 Minutes

by Larissa Reinhart

  Damn, these historic homes had massive yards.

  Behind me, the Honda swerved into the street. A renewed burst of speed lifted my feet, almost like I could hear Jerry threatening me with an extra fifty squats if I didn't "move my cheeseburger and side of fries a hell of a lot faster."

  Or like a car was about to mow me down.

  My arms pumped and my leather-clad thighs squeaked.

  The Honda sped up.

  The scent of burning oil filled my lungs. I could feel the heat pouring off its hood. Black Pine Boulevard was still twenty yards ahead.

  The bumper grazed me.

  I flew forward, my arms spiraling. I stumbled but righted.

  Ahead, a black van pulled to the corner and stopped. Behind me, the Honda’s brakes squealed.

  I waved and screamed at the van. The side door flew open and Al poked his head out, camera in hand.

  Wheels screeched on pavement.

  I spun around.

  The Honda reversed down the street, past the drive, and peeled into the alley. Exhaust fumes and gravel dust exploded behind it.

  I didn't even consider chasing the car. I leaned over with my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. After a minute of heavy panting, I tottered to Al and the camera crew.

  "Did you get any film of that car?" I wheezed.

  "Dammit, no. Were you doing a chase scene?"

  "Tell me you saw the driver. Or got a license plate?”

  Al shook his head. "Is the scene over?"

  I looked behind me. The street stood empty, save for a rolling garbage can lid. "I guess so."

  "Damn." The side door slammed shut and a second later, the van pulled away.

  I thought about the garbage bags now lying in Madeline's back yard and the six blocks back to Dixie Kreme, then tried out the new swear words I had learned from Nash.

  Al deserved every last one of them. But Vicki deserved them more.

  After sweating with bags of oldies, I climbed into Nash’s recliner, unzipped my pants, and waited for my skin to return to room temperature. Then I used Nash’s bat phone to call LA HAIR for backup. If more cars sought to mow me down, I needed someone more dependable than Al watching my ass.

  "Girl, I thought you were fixing to stay on the down low?” said Rhonda. “I can’t look at Facebook without seeing your face plastered all over my feed."

  Tiffany joined in on the extension. “Way to stay out of the limelight, Not-Teenage Detective.”

  "I screwed up. I was trying to clear Nash's name and it backfired."

  "Well, good news is you're trending,” said Rhonda.

  "That was not my intent. Listen, things are getting real. For reals. I could use some help.”

  “What’s up?”

  I decided not to mention the recent threats—phone booths, cars, Jolene—in favor of saving their friendship. In my experience, exposing your troubles was the quickest way to lose friends. “I’ve turned my investigations toward Mr. Waverly, our chief suspect. And I wondered if you girls wanted to go on a mission with me?"

  “What'd you have in mind?" said Tiffany.

  "Meet me at the Cove tonight. We're going to put the screws to that bartender, Alex. The one that dissed you. He owes me, too. Big time."

  “That’s my kind of party.”

  I could imagine Tiffany’s smile. It looked like the evil grin on the puppet from Saw.

  At the DeerNose abode, I readied myself to meet Tiffany and Rhonda at the Cove. I needed dirt to break David Waverly's fishing alibi. If he met a woman on the lake like Bethann Bergh suspected, then we knew he wasn't tossing Sarah's body overboard.

  And if there was no lake rendezvous?

  Then David Waverly had a very bad alibi for the morning his wife vanished. Nash would happily comb through all the marshy goo along the lake’s hidden banks looking for evidence.

  And I'd eagerly search Black Pine for an old, green Honda that had my sweat stains on its bumper. Although, where David Waverly would have gotten that car was a puzzle. And why he didn't actually run me over, another mystery. I had no illusions of track star abilities. That car could have splattered me in the alley—but didn't. Had it been toying with me? Had Al's van prevented the driver from squashing me or had the driver planned on giving me a warning instead? If the driver wasn't David, had my detecting skills been noted by Sarah's kidnapper?

  I must be on the right track if someone wanted to kill me.

  That idea was both terrifying and thrilling.

  Light from the Cove's patio and the decked-out yachts shimmered against the lake's mirrored surface. For a Tuesday night, the restaurant seemed busy, but the Albright crew made for a full house. Lucky's motor died near the tennis courts, which seemed as good a place as any to park, particularly when you didn't want to be seen riding a dirt bike.

  Shallow, yes, but going to the Cove meant wading among the shallow.

  Tonight, I dressed for the cameras, tired of looking like I had been voted off Survivor. Vicki taught me to use fashion as a weapon, and I needed off-the-rack armor. I had assembled myself in an A.L.C. crepe jumpsuit. The black number had tapered ankles which meant the pants wouldn't get sucked into Lucky's engine (which had become my most recent fear). There was the issue of a V-neck cut midway to my belly, but I had the miracle of Fixomull, my stylist's favorite boob lift tape. Also beneficial for its intended use as a surgical bandage in case Lucky's engine did burn my legs.

  After swapping out my sneakers for some sweet Giuseppe Zanotti t-straps, I strutted to the restaurant. Alex, Cove bartender and Vicki minion, was not in the fireplace bar. Neither were Rhonda and Tiffany. I traipsed toward the fairy-lighted patio and paused in the doorway.

  The patio had been doused in All is Albright crew like Axe Body Spray. Lounging and drinking, they waited for something to happen. Something as in me, signing a contract that would keep them in their current financial states. Or not.

  As I stood in the patio door, their eyes cut to mine. Amid their smiles and waves, I sensed an upsurge in the deep-rooted anxiety felt by all industry insiders. One that helped to maintain a luxurious lifestyle for Los Angeles health professionals.

  And a luxurious lifestyle for the industry's addiction pushers. Including the Cove's own Alex. I set my brain to Julia and my sea glass greens to stun.

  On cue, Tiffany and Rhonda flanked my left and right. Just like Kung Fu Kate's posse right before the final battle at the end of every episode. Except Kate's posse didn't wear net shirts or strapless dresses. I would not be the only one worried about slippage tonight. Charlie's Angels for realsies.

  My body hummed with electric anticipation and residual sexual frustration. "There he is. The narc."

  "I've been looking forward to this all day," said Tiffany.

  "Can I get another mai tai first?" asked Rhonda.

  We marched to the bar, our eyes on Alex. Who had his eyes on the blonde at a nearby table.

  Vicki.

  “Frigtacular,” I mumbled. “I can’t shake her. She’s going to interfere with my missions until she breaks me.”

  Vicki's famous platinum waves kissed the back of her Donna Karan wrap dress. She gave me a brief glance over her shoulder and returned to chatting with Al, the cameraman.

  He snapped a picture of my open-mouthed gape, then resumed their conversation.

  "Don't let her distract you, Maizie," said Rhonda. "You can do this."

  We stopped at the bar. Pumped for the mission, I leaned forward and placed a hand on the bartender's arm. "Can I talk to you for a minute? In private?"

  Alex struggled to keep his vision north of my neck. "I have to keep an eye on the bar."

  "Don't look like it's the bar you're eyeing," said Tiffany. She glanced at Rhonda. "Does he look busy to you?"

  "I think you better talk to the girl,” said Rhonda. "You owe her. Because of you, OK! reported Maizie's delivering Giulio's baby live during sweeps week."

  I felt my knees buckle and Rhonda grabbed my elbow.

>   "Move it or we tell your boss that you've been nipping the Absolut during office hours," said Tiffany.

  "I don't drink vodka." His eyes cut to the glass of Coke sitting next to the cash register.

  "Whatever. We don't play," said Rhonda. "Maizie needs some information from you."

  Alex rolled his eyes and pointed toward the servers' entrance to the kitchen. He waved a waiter over and stalked toward the kitchen door.

  After an exchange of raised eyebrows, fist pumps, and goofy smiles, we followed.

  Inside the kitchen door, Alex ushered us into a pantry.

  I hesitated then followed. The phone booth had been much smaller. And less stocked with people and carbs.

  Alex glanced at my belly skimming V-neck and softened his irritation. "Hey, Maizie. You aren't still mad at me, are you?"

  "Why would I be mad? For selling me out for a Benji? Happens to me all the time. Next time, hold out for more. Vicki always lowballs the first offer."

  "Oh snap," said Rhonda.

  "You going to help out our girl?" Tiffany slitted her electric blue lined eyes. "She needs some dirt on a club member. David Waverly."

  "We're not allowed to talk about members," said Alex.

  "You're also not allowed to sell out customers." Tiffany cracked her knuckles. "So you make another exception."

  I hoped Tiffany never joined the mob.

  Alex sighed. "What do you want to know?"

  "You worked the inside bar on Saturday night. David Waverly had a drink with a woman. Who?"

  Alex stared at the mayonnaise jars on the upper shelf. "Redhead. You talked to her the other night. Has the real estate company."

  I blinked. David Waverly had met with Jolene the weekend his wife disappeared? Why did that feel hinky? They saw each other at poker Sunday night. What was with the private meeting? Just chatting about selling Nash Security? Maybe Jolene was trying to cover her ass, in case Nash blew the sale.

  "Do you think they’re having an affair?" I asked.

  Alex shrugged. "Everyone knows David Waverly will screw anything not nailed down."

  "Eew," said Rhonda.

  "Interesting," I said. Jolene could have been using David. He had money and reeked of corporate power. Jolene probably went in for that sort of thing. But would she go along with getting rid of his wife?

  "I need to know if he met anyone on Friday morning," I continued. "He took the boat out and I heard that's where he does his hookups. How does that work?"

  "If the lady has her own boat, they dock out at the Bourne place and one of them climbs aboard the other." Alex waggled his eyebrows.

  "Eew," said Rhonda.

  "Why do rich people have to be so complicated?" said Tiffany. "Can't they do it in a sleazy motel or a car like everyone else?"

  Alex shrugged. "Why would you when you have a tricked-out boat with a bed?"

  "Eew," said Rhonda.

  "What is this Bourne place?" I asked.

  "The Bournes don't use their dock anymore. They're elderly. The house is up on a ridge overlooking the lake with steps leading down to the dock. At one time, they had put in a nice patio and a small beach by their dock. They allowed club members to use it."

  "Do the Bournes know club members are using it for hookups?" I wrinkled my nose. "Those poor people."

  "I heard the Bournes were swingers back in the day." Alex smirked. "Maybe they're passing the torch."

  "What is wrong with Black Pine?" I shuddered. "I thought this kind of thing was exclusive to LA."

  "It's not geographic," said Tiffany. "It's money."

  "I had money and didn't act like that."

  "You did a bunch of other stupid stuff, though," said Rhonda. "You didn't give yourself enough time to get to swinging."

  "Are we done here?" said Alex. "People are going to wonder what I'm doing in the pantry with three women."

  We got out of the closet.

  Leaving Alex to his bar, the girls and I found an empty table on the patio. We ordered three waters with lemon and a mai tai. Then handed over twenty-three dollars and a tip.

  "It's too expensive to drink here," said Tiffany. "Why don't you come out with us?"

  "I think I should visit the Bournes before it gets too late," I said. "They might have seen something last Friday."

  Tiffany shook her head. "Putting the screws to Alex was fun, but count me out on the Bournes. Elderly swingers give me the creeps."

  I sank my chin into my palm. "I don't really want to visit them either. I'm totally grossed out over the lack of morals in Black Pine. Thank God DeerNose hasn't fallen into this pit of iniquity."

  "DeerNose banks on clean, country living," said Tiffany. "That's their edge."

  I winced at her cynicism. "Judge Ellis sent me here to get away from the 'depravity of the young, moneyed culture of Beverly Hills.' Little did he know he sent the lamb to the slaughter."

  "The moneyed culture in Black Pine is not young," said Rhonda. "You'll do okay."

  twenty

  #SwingerMiss #PimpMyCareer

  Rhonda and Tiffany left to find more affordable libations. I borrowed Alex's cell phone to call Nash.

  "Don't drive to the Bournes on that scooter. I'll pick you up at the Cove."

  My heart accelerated. "You want to question them together?"

  "I want to question them and I don't want you following me. Those old mountain roads are crap and barely wide enough for two vehicles. Someone comes speeding down one and they'll squash you like a bug."

  Nash worried about my safety. My toes curled inside the Zanotti's.

  "Last thing I need is a headline saying, 'Nash Security Solutions Sends Actress to Her Death.' I've already got a similar headline with Sarah Waverly."

  Just for that, I didn't tell him the Bournes were swingers.

  We hung up. I hammered my fingers on the bar, wondering what was wrong with me that I could be attracted to someone so irritating. Irresistible Neanderthal, my ass. More like costar crushing. I had serious issues and needed a new therapist. But first I needed a paycheck to pay said therapist.

  "Baby."

  I sucked in a breath, then let it out to keep my Fixomull from ripping.

  Giulio strode up the patio steps from the cart path. He wore Armani, per ushe. A painted-on polo that grappled his biceps and hinted at his daily ab workouts. With those damn skinny jeans. However, he was too silly for me to stay angry. The baby stunt had to have been Vicki's idea. Giulio was paid to act, not think.

  The locals watched the proceedings with unconcealed interest as did the Albright crew. The patio hummed with boozed anticipation. Al grabbed his camera.

  Using a stage voice to project his admiration of my Zanottis, Giulio paced across the patio.

  I dodged his open embrace.

  He parried with a shoulder hug.

  We bumped chests and noses.

  He countered my double cheek kiss with a longer lip lock. Fake shutter whirs abounded. Al's Canon DSLR hummed.

  I lost all my NARS Orgasm. Truthfully, I let him. My lips had been frustrated ever since the powdered sugar debacle at Nash's office. And Giulio was that good.

  Glancing down into my décolletage, Giulio whispered, "Watch the nip slip, my darling. I heard your tape rip."

  With Giulio's hard body to block the cameras, I adjusted the girls then gently pushed him away. "Thanks."

  "Anytime." He gave me a lazy, Italian smile. "You know I have the quick eye for this sort of thing."

  "Of course you do. Listen, I've got to go. Nash is picking me up so we can question some swingers."

  "Darling, do you mean the detective work? It is so sexy when you say, 'question some swingers.' Very hard-boiled, you know? It has that noir edge. I think it will be our best season yet."

  "Giulio, you know I'm not doing the show. You're making it hard on the crew if you continue to let them think they'll be staying in Black Pine."

  "But darling, we are staying in Black Pine this season."

  "Sweetie.
" I patted his chiseled cheek bone, stroking the bare scant of stubble Giulio spent much time maintaining. "Don't worry. You won't be stuck in Black Pine. As long as I can solve this case for Nash, I am not signing. You will be going back to LA very soon."

  "Let me explain. But I need a drink. You have the minute, don't you, my darling?" Giulio wrapped an arm around my waist and guided me to the bar. Within seconds, I held a seltzer with lime and he a Campari. His fingers trailed against my hip.

  I sucked in my stomach and tried not to think about fried pickles.

  Giulio slid a sloe-eyed glance across the patio. I didn't have to look to know where it landed.

  "Your madre," he paused and lowered his voice. "Vicki. She says whether you sign or not is irrelevant."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The other producers agree it is cheaper to film in Black Pine, Georgia."

  I set my glass on the bar and gripped his shoulders. "Please don't tell me she's moving the crew and cast to Black Pine permanently."

  "Then I won't tell you." His hand glided from my hip to my waist, forcing me to tighten my withering abs, which automatically plumped out my chest. Giulio noticed and smiled. "Let me 'question the swingers' with you darling. I want to be your bad cop. That jumpsuit is exquisite. I'm not dressed properly, but maybe Costume has a leather jacket I can borrow. The pairing will look fabulous."

  "No bad cop. And no photograph." I removed his hands from my waist. Then relaxed my stomach and thought about ordering the fried Vidalia onion blossom. But Giulio would expense it and I didn't want Vicki signing off on my trans-fat charges. "Why is she doing this?"

  Giulio leaned against the bar and sipped his Campari cocktail. "It's much cheaper to film here. We are professionals. We will adjust."

  "I won't adjust if she stays."

  "I'd adjust your eating habits," said Vicki from behind my shoulder. "Your cleavage has grown and soon no amount of tape can help you there."

  “Unbelievable.” I swore under my breath. "How do you keep doing that?"

  "I know, her breasts are fabulous," said Giulio. "But Vicki's right. You cannot get fat, darling. You know how the camera packs on the pounds. Unless it's a baby bump. We can work with that."