Maizie Albright Star Detective 01 15 Minutes

by Larissa Reinhart

  "Yikes," I said.

  Lamar nodded. "Nash'll be lucky if Jolene doesn't shoot him. She's tried that once before."

  Nash flicked an irritated look at Lamar. "She missed."

  "Do you think Jolene could be involved?" I asked Lamar, but I meant it for Nash. "She also met David on Saturday night at the Cove. They had a drink together in the bar."

  "Jolene would need a strong motive for accessory or aiding and abetting, much less murder. She's one who would weigh the consequences."

  Ignoring us, Nash paced to set his gaze out the window. "Jolene didn't do anything."

  "I hope feelings aren't clouding your judgement," said Lamar.

  I sucked in my breath. Feelings for Jolene? Or for Sarah Waverly?

  Julia Pinkerton rolled her teenage eyes at those self-absorbed questions.

  I made a mental note to mark the conscious thought of subconscious subtext for my next therapy appointment and directed my attention toward more important considerations. "What did the police find out, Lamar?"

  "Atlanta police found the Corvette in Hartsfield-Jackson's long term parking yesterday. They're waiting to see if Waverly checked on a flight," said Lamar. "Black Pine PD did a good job getting the word out."

  "Wow. Did Waverly have a plane ticket?"

  "Don't know. The police are waiting on the warrant to look at the flight logs. And to look in the Corvette."

  "How long until they know?"

  "The flight logs? That's a whole lot of Homeland Security red tape. The vehicle warrant shouldn't take much time unless airport parking falls under Homeland Security, too."

  "Waverly could've skipped," said Nash. "But not because he's on the lam. The bastard probably ran out of adjectives to describe me and wanted a vacation from all the interviews."

  "You don't think he killed Sarah?" said Lamar. "Want to elucidate us on your newest deduction?"

  Nash turned to lean against the window. "Docking at the Bournes to dump a body? Even if Waverly and Jolene didn't know about the Bourne peepshow, why risk it?"

  I had wondered that myself. "Plus, that means Waverly and Jolene had planned on killing Sarah. I always thought Sarah's murder would be second degree. Like they fought and in his anger David Waverly accidentally killed his wife, then hid it. Why would he plan a murder for the morning he knew I'd be watching Sarah?"

  "Unless he thought you might flake out. No offense, but you are an actress," said Lamar. "But Nash, you must have more than that. Stop keeping everything so close to your vest."

  "I checked the DVR recording of the minicam I had planted in the Waverly driveway," said Nash. "Waverly left his house in the Corvette same time as usual yesterday morning. But the night before, a taxi parked on their street. Drove real slow, like it was parking nearby. Maybe someone else is involved."

  "That could be anything," said Lamar. "One of the neighbors coming home from the airport."

  "Around midnight?"

  "Coming home drunk from the Cove, then."

  "On a Monday night?" said Nash. "I don't like it."

  "Can't we ask Platinum Ridge's security about the taxi?" I asked. "They keep records and have a video camera on their booth."

  "Doubt if they'd tell you," said Lamar. "They'd keep the records confidential for the home owners' privacy."

  "I'll try anyway."

  "This is what it boils down to," said Nash. "Waverly has a sketchy alibi for the morning his wife disappeared. Yesterday he took off. The police will be looking for him, but my name is still linked to this case."

  "What if she was kidnapped?" I said. "And there was a ransom but Waverly didn't tell anybody? Yesterday at Black Pine Group, William Dixon said the numbers were off. What if Waverly took money from Black Pine Group to pay the ransom?"

  "And slipped off to the airport to bring the money?" said Lamar. "Could be."

  "Then where is Waverly?" said Nash.

  "We need to find him," I said. "If we can solve this, the media will make you a hero."

  "The media's blackened my name thanks to Waverly. I don't want anything to do with the media."

  "Then kiss your business goodbye." Julia's snark was better for making a point. "Whether you like it or not, the media will follow this case. They can spin a story any which way. Nobody knows that better than me. We solve this and Nash Security Solutions is back on the map."

  Nash left to meet Jolene at the police station. He called it damage control, but Lamar exchanged a look with me that spoke of something else.

  I set that look aside and thought about how I could help with the case. Mr. Deevers, Platinum Ridge's night security guard, had said Community Management's Mark Jacobs—as opposed to Marc Jacobs—kept the subdivision's vehicle reports and security videos. I should at least try to get a look at the taxi. Speaking as someone without any investigative training (still), it seemed like a good lead.

  Two women ran the Community Management Office: Debby and Jessica. It was hard to switch on Julia Pinkerton because Debby and Jessica wanted Maizie Albright. Not only did they have copies of my photos from the AJC and the Black Pine Gazette, they also had Sharpies and Instagram and lots of squealing.

  I signed the photos of Giulio clenching my butt and smiled for two snapshots and one group selfie. And then, at their request, told them my rehab story about meeting the singer from Atomic, who's real name is Chad, and how he wrote the song, "Sorry Daughter," about me.

  Of course, I didn't tell Debby and Jessica about Chad and his wife's codependency or Chad's father giving Chad his first bong hit when he was only eight. When Chad isn't stoned out of his mind, he's actually a nice guy. Just loose with the tongue while song writing. Which he does stoned.

  "So what are the chances of All is Albright filming in Black Pine?" asked Debby.

  "I have no idea," I said.

  "We know a realtor we can recommend if you or anyone from the show is looking for housing in our communities," said Jessica. "We have premium rentals, too."

  "Who's your realtor?" I had a feeling she was going to say...

  "Jolene Sweeney."

  "Would you like to look at our community maps?" asked Debby.

  "That's okay. I'm interested in speaking to Mark Jacobs," I hesitated. "Do you know if Jolene sold the Waverlys their house?"

  Jessica tapped her chin with her French manicure. "Probably."

  "Does Jolene live in Platinum Ridge?"

  "I'll just say, Platinum Ridge is for the Who's Who of Black Pine. Unless you're an original. Then you might live in the historic district. Except of course, if someone's like your daddy..."

  "A 'Who's Who' who wants a lot of property for hunting and fishing."

  "Exactly," said Debby, relieved to get past any awkwardness for a potential client. "Everyone knows Boomer Spayberry is not an in-town person. And we respect that."

  Which meant Daddy and his deer pee were better off back in the woods. Although the club wouldn't mind his money and name.

  "Back to Jolene Sweeney. She seems successful."

  They bobbed their heads.

  "She could sell a bulldog to a Gator fan," said Jessica.

  I didn't get the analogy, but I got her drift. "I guess she and David Waverly probably had a lot in common. He's pretty successful at”—I still had no clue what he did—“making money. You heard about his wife, Sarah, disappearing? Do you think she might have taken off? Because of? You know? Jolene?"

  "Jolene?" Debby raised her eyebrows at Jessica.

  "You didn't hear anything like that?"

  They shook their heads.

  Great, I had started an unfounded rumor. "Can I talk to Mark Jacobs now?"

  We walked into the map room which featured a scale model of Black Pine including the mountain, lake, and wooded hills encompassing Daddy's acreage. They even had a tiny factory set in the adjoining DeerNose property woods. With a gravel parking lot with teeny cars. And bitty boats on the lake. Adorbs.

  I walked around the glass-cased model. On the surrounding walls
, Community Management subdivision maps had been hung in elegant frames. Photographs of featured homes and subdivision amenities clustered around the maps. I found Platinum Ridge and studied the parallel streets that snaked up the side of the mountain. There was only one way in and out of Platinum Ridge—at the guard house—unless one wanted to scale a fence and drop into the surrounding woods.

  Or fall over a wall into the adjoining subdivision, Echo Ridge. After climbing a tree while being chased by a dog.

  A moment later, Mark Jacobs appeared. Very different from Marc Jacobs. Mark was stocky, although the Community Management polo and pleated Dockers did him no favors. He could have used some tips from Marc.

  “Look, Mark," squealed Debby. "It's Maizie Albright. She needs to see how our security works. Maybe for a role. Isn't that exciting?"

  "You're my appointment?" Mark Jacobs did not look excited to meet me. He looked annoyed.

  I seemed to have that effect on some Black Pine men.

  "Come on," he grunted, clomping toward the offices in the back.

  I scurried behind him, focusing on recreating Julia's moxie. We entered a room with more maps pinned to the wall along with a rack of clipboards and an open security box of keys. He settled behind his desk and leaned back in his chair. I lowered myself across from him in the only other chair. Between us sat a ginormous monitor for his computer, stacks of Guns & Ammo magazines, and a bag of pork rinds. I scooted my chair to the right so I could see him. Evidently, Mark Jacobs did not often entertain in his office.

  "What's all this about?" Mark Jacobs liked to get to the point. Which was fine with me.

  "I'm actually here representing a private investigation firm.” I flashed him the business card I’d taken from Nash's desk. "One of our clients lives in Platinum Ridge. We'd like to see your logs and video footage from this week."

  "Why?"

  "We're tracking a missing person."

  "Who?"

  I thought for a minute. "Someone related to our client."

  "This isn't about that Waverly business? Because I already spoke to the police."

  "I'm not looking for Sarah Waverly." Which was not a lie. I was looking for her husband.

  "Why hasn't the police contacted me about this one?"

  "They probably will. Soon. And I'll let them know how compliant you were." I shot him my Maxim smile.

  Mark Jacobs frowned and massaged his chin curtain.

  I scooted forward in my chair. "Mr. Jacobs. A missing person. Can you imagine? How awful? Timeliness is so important, you know. Please. I just want to see who left in a taxi on Monday night."

  "Our homeowners pay a lot of money to guard their privacy." Mark Jacobs steepled his hands on his belly and rocked in his chair for a good twenty seconds.

  I got the feeling Mark Jacobs didn't like to put out extra effort. I also got the feeling he was waiting for something. And then it dawned on me. He was in need of some palm greasing. And I had no money. Well, I did have some money, but with no credit card, I wasn't willing to part with the cash.

  "An autographed photo of me can get around one hundred dollars on Ebay. Especially when I've recently been in the news."

  Twenty minutes later Mark Jacobs took a picture of me signing the photo we had shot and printed on glossy paper using Debby's photo printer. I signed a print for Debby and Jessica, too. Which they planned to hang in the reception room. Hopefully, Daddy would never have reason to enter Community Management.

  Our photo shoot over, I ran my finger down the log of vehicle entries for Platinum Ridge. While I eyeballed the video footage on his computer, Mark Jacobs admired the cheesecake image of me twisting my t-shirt and chewing on a pen.

  It could have been worse.

  The log book made it a lot easier to race through a lot of dead time. Two taxis had entered Platinum Ridge on Monday, one at four-thirty in the afternoon and one at eleven forty-six in the evening. I found the night time footage of the taxi pulling through the security gates. The back seat looked empty. The guard had written a Granite Curve address, but it was across the street from the Waverlys.

  "I guess Lamar was right," I said.

  "Who's Lamar?" Mark Jacobs looked up from his phone where he had been entering his eBay information.

  "I'll check to see who the taxi picked up anyway."

  Mark rolled his eyes and returned to his thumb typing.

  I forwarded the footage six minutes. The taxi reappeared at the gates. As it pulled through, I paused the film. The cab driver had his window open. Behind him, the fare had leaned forward, his attention on something blocked by the seat. Judging by the glow, it was probably his phone. And because of the light, I managed to see the shock of white hair and lean, chiseled face of Ed Sweeney.

  "Whoa," I said.

  "What?" Mark had finished his eBay form and now thumbed through collectible liquor bottles.

  "Eddie's got some 'splaining to do," I said in my best Ricky Riccardo voice.

  Mark rolled his eyes entirely too much.

  "Let me check the next morning," I said and sped the footage forward.

  At eight forty-five the next morning, Waverly's Corvette pulled up to the security gates, waited for them to open, then zoomed through. Because the camera had been mounted on the rear of the security booth, I had a perfect shot of the Corvette’s driver. Who, I thought, made an obvious attempt to avoid the camera.

  "The hells?"

  "Can you stop with the speaking out loud?"

  "I can't help it. It's an honest reaction. Look at this still.” I pointed to the driver. "Do you recognize this man?"

  "Hard to tell." Mark squinted at the screen. "He's turned like he's looking in the backseat. Plus there's the hat, glasses, and big windbreaker."

  "He stays like that until the gates open and then pulls forward. Who does that? I think it's hinky."

  "Hinky?"

  I sighed. "Can I get a print of this picture?"

  Mark Jacobs glanced at the eBay screen on his phone and flicked his gaze back to me. "Sign the pen you chewed."

  "Are you kidding me? That's disgusting. Nobody is going to buy a chewed pen."

  "Not according to eBay."

  "This country is in a deplorable state."

  "Actually, you're really popular in North Korea."

  While Debby and Jessica hung the non-cheesecake photo of me behind their desk, I used their phone to call Nash.

  "Ed Sweeney visited David Waverly the night before,” I said. “The cab picked him up across the street."

  "He could have given them the wrong address." I could hear Nash tapping his finger against the phone. "I wonder why he didn't drive."

  "I can ask."

  "I forgot how cozy you are with Ed Sweeney, Miss Albright. By all means, ask."

  "I'm not cozy with Ed Sweeney."

  "More cozy than me. Particularly since he's heading the sale of my business."

  "Cheer up. With all the bad press, Ed doesn't think it'll sell."

  "Because I lost all the clients that would go with the sale." Nash cleared his throat. "Anything else, Miss Albright?"

  "I don't think David Waverly was driving the Corvette."

  "What?"

  "I have a still from the security footage. You should look at it. The police, too."

  "Bring it here."

  "Did I do good?"

  No finger tapping, but also no comment.

  "Please don't make 'no praise' a rule," I begged. "This information might cost me a weird relationship with a communist dictator."

  "I don't even know what that means." Nash chuckled. "But you did good, kid."

  twenty-two

  #RestingBFace #BahamaBankroll

  Nash was not at the office. I dropped off the photos and aimed Lucky toward Black Pine Group. I could understand why Nash disliked Ed Sweeney. Not just because Ed headed the corporate buyout of Nash Security. That was business, after all. Ed was Jolene's uncle. Relationships with the relatives of ex-spouses could be tricky and i
n towns like Black Pine, it was hard to avoid them. According to Remi, Vicki's kin had a habit of hitting Daddy up for money. By staying in California, Vicki had dodged any Spayberrys looking for celebrity freebies. As the child of a bitter divorce, I learned to dance between families.

  I could pirouette between Nash and Ed Sweeney, too. No problemo.

  Vehicles filled Black Pine Group's parking lot, although David Waverly's Corvette was noticeably absent. I hurried through the big glass doors. The office seemed businessy quiet, per ushe. Even Elaine, the receptionist, wore her normal glare. Elaine had what my publicist, Sherry, called RBF. "Resting bitch face."

  Sherry felt everyone should smile big. All. The. Time. Her favorite saying was "fake it until you make it." Because I had spent most of my childhood in LA, I had thought she had meant boobs.

  I smoothed my beaded Saint Laurent t-shirt, pasted on a Sherry-worthy big smile, and strode to the reception desk. "Hi, Elaine. I'm here to see Ed again."

  Elaine folded her hands over her keypad. "He's not available. Everyone else is busy."

  "He's not here or he's not available?"

  Elaine smirked.

  Behind Elaine, a woman in a dark suit and knotted Hermès scarf popped through an office door and ran-walked down the hall. Two men in ties followed, also run-walking.

  Elaine spun in her chair to watch them, leaving me free to gawk the office sprint.

  The woman yanked open the door to a conference room and the trio hurried inside. Another office door banged open and two more businessy types rushed out, their arms heavy with copier boxes filled with binders. They hammered on the door to the conference room with elbows and toes until the door opened.

  "What's going on?" I asked.

  Elaine twisted back to face me. "I can't say. And I wouldn't anyway. You need to leave."

  The Hermés-scarf woman slipped out of the room, poked her head into reception, and spoke in a quick staccato that still managed a Georgia drawl. "Elaine, honey, can I borrow you for a minute?" She unstaccatoed. "I'm sorry, ma'am. We're not taking appointments today."