15 Minutes: Maizie Albright Star Detective

by Larissa Reinhart

His thumb pressed against my lips. "Maizie."

  "Muh?"

  "I meant the ideas are yours. Not Julia Pinkerton's."

  O.M.G. That was even better than the donut line. Nash could write a Nicholas Sparks movie.

  His thumb lifted and my lips felt unbearably cool. For a long, slow second, his gaze remained fixed on my mouth. The big palm slid off my chin to cup my cheek. His fingers dug into my hair.

  I pulled in a breath and tightened my grip on his t-shirt.

  This was the big moment. I didn't look fabulous. A sticky film of snot and tears covered my face. But Nash didn't care. He thought better of me than anyone I'd ever known. Even my parents. Which wasn't saying much. But still. He preferred me to Julia Pinkerton.

  All my misgivings about costar/boss love issues fell away.

  Arching against his chest, I tipped my head back. My tear-dampened hair slid across my shoulders and trickled down my back. I licked my lips and parted them. Which felt sexy. And practical, as I was unable to breathe through my nose.

  Nash leaned forward. His breath skated across my face. His hand slipped from my hair.

  I waited for it to land on my boob, the usual man-hand resting place.

  Instead, his arm dropped from my shoulders. "Feeling better?"

  I snapped my head down, ramming my chin into his shoulder.

  He barked an "ouch" and I scooted away.

  O.M.G. I was the dumbest girl alive. No amount of Julia Pinkerton channeling could help me. Why would he want to kiss me when Sarah Waverly could be dead? Could I be more insensitive?

  Clearing his throat, he slid to the other end of the couch. "Ready? We need to do some research to find Ed Sweeney. He's not answering his phone."

  I took a hearty sniff, swiped a forearm across my face, and hopped from the couch. "He's sailing for the Bahamas from Savannah at Magnolia Marina. A Little Nauti. That's his boat."

  "Good work, Miss Albright." The hard glint to his eyes had returned.

  "I saw the photos in his office." I gritted my teeth in an effort to smile. "Excuse me for a moment while I step into the bathroom."

  "Sure. Fine." Nash rose from the couch and strode into his office. "Let me see if I can talk to someone at Magnolia Marina."

  I lunged for the hall door. We were back to Miss Albright. A new bout of tears threatened to gut me. Now that I was already puffy, I might as well let them fly.

  The bathroom was located down the old-timey hall from Nash's office. Like a tiny version of Nash's office, it consisted of two rooms. The front held the sink and a small chest of drawers where I had snooped and found Nash's Acqua di Selva aftershave as well as other toiletries. The back room had a poky stall shower and the toilet. More clues that told me Nash lived in his office and not in the home he had most likely lost to Jolene in their divorce wars.

  Jolene had done a doozy on Nash. Which made me wonder if she had done a doozy on David Waverly as well. She was shady and devious, revealed by her quick friendship with Vicki and horrible treatment of Nash. She loved money, shown in her totally rad taste in clothes and office design. Jolene probably bought Nash's classic designer duds back in their marriage days, evident by their wear and tear. And she was willing to debase herself, as evidenced by the bikini meeting. How far off could she be from kidnapping, extortion, and embezzlement? Even murder?

  She was evil. I'd even bet her bikini meeting had nothing to do with the buyout and everything to do with the fact that she was putting the screws to Waverly. Maybe the poker buddies had partnered in an embezzlement caper. But Jolene got greedy. Probably hired a hit man. Jolene had the hit man kidnap Sarah while she and David launched their respective yachts. They’d docked at the Bournes. Jolene had sidetracked Waverly with her bikini, then lowered the boom.

  "I've just kidnapped your wife. Give me all the money or else Sarah gets it," I said in Jolene's snarky drawl.

  Splashing cold water on my face, I blotted it dry and drew out my makeup bag.

  "No, please Jolene,” I continued in David Waverly’s voice while pulling out my Bobbi Brown Creamy Concealer. “I'll do anything you want. As long as you're in that bikini.”

  Squinting my eyes—bright green from crying and made greener from the splotchy red—I replied as Jolene. "Transfer all the money to my account in the..." I considered the possibilities. Vicki kept money in the Bahamas. She said offshore money in the Caymans was passé, everyone did the Bahamas now. Unless you had Panama money. Besides, the Bahamas seemed popular with Black Pine’s glitterati.

  "The Bahamas. Give me proof you've done as I asked at the Cove Saturday night. Then I might let Sarah live. Remember, I'll be watching you all weekend."

  "It's already in the Bahamas' bank, Jolene." My David Waverly impression was not great, but I was on a roll. "As poker buddies and cheating spouses, we've been planning this forever. I used your ex-husband to watch my wife. Because I hired a PI, everyone will think she ran away with her pretend lover and at the same time make Nash look like an idiot. Ha."

  My maniacal laughter also needed work. But I might have figured out what had happened to Sarah. Even if Nash wouldn't appreciate the thought of his ex-wife popping off the Waverlys.

  Outside the wooden door, the floorboards creaked.

  Great, Nash probably heard me talking to myself.

  "Just a minute," I called and turned on the sink faucet to drown my Jolene/David dialogue.

  I tossed my bronzer brush into my makeup bag and slipped into the toilet room. A few minutes later, I pushed open the powder room door. The room was dark. I hesitated in the doorway, using the light from the toilet room to see into the small space. My makeup bag lay on the sink top, undisturbed. The water still ran.

  Weird.

  I glanced at the light, wondering if a bulb had blown, and stepped toward the sink to turn off the faucet.

  The toilet room door swung closed, throwing the room into darkness. I fumbled for the light.

  A body slipped behind me, clamping a hand over my mouth.

  My fingers dug into the hand and the barrel of a gun rammed my ribs. My hands flew away and into the air. I drew in a shuddering breath and tasted antibacterial soap.

  The old hide-behind-the-door trick. They did it a million times on Julia Pinkerton. And Kung Fu Kate. Why hadn't I seen this coming?

  "This is your last warning." The voice was low and throaty, obviously disguised. The gun jabbed into my back. "Get Nash to drop the case or I will kill you."

  Thank God my bladder had been recently emptied.

  The pistol pulled away my ribs. "I'll be watching you."

  I tried to let out a breath but the hand on my mouth tightened.

  The gun slammed into my skull. A skyrocket burst inside my head and I slumped to the ground like a spent roman candle tube.

  twenty-four

  #hitandrunholla #assinhand

  Bright light woke me, but I refused to open my eyes. My head throbbed, my body ached, and for a moment I feared Vicki had slipped me in for a surprise nip and tuck. But the voice I heard sounded like Nash, whom I doubted would accompany me to a surgical procedure. He also sounded gentle and concerned, which also didn't fit with the little I knew of Nash. Had Lucky and I been in a smash-up? My brain chased that thought, but hitting a wall of pain, I came up short.

  "Maizie. Hon, are you with me?"

  A memory swelled against the wall of pain. A gun had been pressed against my ribs.

  "Oh my God, I've been shot," I cried. "In the head? How am I not dead? How am I talking?"

  "Hush." A hand pressed against my forehead, cool and calming. "You haven't been shot. You're going to be fine."

  I opened one eye.

  He crouched over me, the icy blue eyes squinting and the scar standing stark white against his tanned skin. No self-tanner needed on this one. He probably didn't use SPF. My thoughts ping-ponged between pain and bronzers.

  I shut the eye to find focus.

  "Don't move, Maizie. Just lie still a moment and let me chec
k you out."

  His hands slipped across my face to the back of my neck and a whopping fireball of agony slammed into me. Followed by the realization that I lay on the floor of the bathroom in the Dixie Kreme building. I squeezed my eyelids, determined to lie still, but the idea of a bathroom floor was too disgusting. My t-shirt was beaded silk and I couldn't stand for a Saint Laurent to lay in the grime of a Nash's dubious cleaning skills.

  I jackknifed and vaulted to my feet. A wave of dizziness and nausea slammed into me. My palms hit the wall and I slid to a crouch, hanging my head between my legs.

  "What part of 'lie still so I can check you out' didn't you understand?" Nash snarled.

  "The floor is dirty."

  "Who cares? You might have a concussion."

  "This top is fifteen hundred dollars. Do you think I can afford dry cleaning right now?"

  "Criminy." His big palm glided up my back to rest between my shoulder blades. "You've got a goose-egg the size of Detroit on the back of your head. What happened?"

  "Oh God." I panted between words, trying to deal with the roiling bitterness in my stomach that was only slightly less awful than the pain in my head. "Someone was in here."

  "What?" His head swiveled toward the open doorway.

  "They had a gun. They threatened to kill me if I didn't get you to drop the case. Then they must have hit me on the head."

  "Shit." Nash rubbed a circle between my shoulders. "I didn't see anyone. They've probably left by now."

  The shoulder rubbing helped my stomach. I eased my head up and rested my forearms on my thighs.

  "I'll take you to the hospital." At my look, he added, "I'm sure Boomer would pay to get your head checked."

  "I don't want him to pay. And I don't want to go to the hospital. We need to talk to Ed Sweeney."

  "No. You're done."

  I slid my back up the bathroom wall and tried a hard stare. My vision wobbled, but no worse than the time I went clubbing with the Lohan entourage. "I'm fine. I just need some ibuprofen."

  "Hell, no. Maizie, you've been bludgeoned by a flippin' unknown assailant. I'll take you to a hospital, the police station, or Boomer Spayberry's house, but I will not let you—”

  "I've had concussions before. They won't give me a prescription and I'll spend the entire day at the hospital. And guess who will find me there? Paparazzi love chasing ambulances more than lawyers." I narrowed my eyes. "And they'll find out I was bludgeoned by an unknown assailant in the Nash Security Solutions' bathroom."

  "Are you threatening blackmail?" His scar stretched and throbbed against the firming of his jaw.

  "No, I'm only pointing out facts." I took a deep breath and pushed off the wall. “We must be getting close if they're taking a risk like this. You could've come out of the office at any time and seen them."

  "Dammit. This deal's gotten too dangerous. We don't even know who hit you."

  "The only person who couldn't have done it was Ed Sweeney." I rubbed the back of my neck, wishing for the return of Nash's comforting hand and gentle voice. "Ed's sailing."

  "His boat's still docked in Savannah. But he's not answering his phone."

  "Then I guess we need to go to Savannah to talk to him."

  "Not we. Me."

  "You're going to leave me in Black Pine with my assailant? I didn't stop you from dropping the case. That means they'll try to kill me."

  Whatever Nash felt about me, I knew he was protective. He'd have to take me with him to Savannah.

  I was wrong.

  When Nash told me, I should "stay put in the office with the doors locked until he got back" and I told him, I wouldn't "wait for someone to shoot down the door" and I'd "rather take my chances following him to Savannah on Lucky," the man picked me up, threw me over his shoulder, and carried me to his truck.

  While I kicked and hollered about Neanderthal tactics and the effects of a sudden blood rush to my aching head, the black Sprinter van across the street slid open their door to take film.

  More pictures of me with a man's hand on my ass. And this time, my butt was next to the man's face. Even better, the man flipped off the camera crew as he jogged down the steps of the Dixie Kreme building. In fact, his right hand tightened the clench on my butt as he drew out the middle left finger for the cameras.

  Nash really needed better PR awareness. Particularly when they were hired by Vicki. That bit would probably make the cut for the new season's trailer.

  Twenty minutes later, my butt and aching head could be found in my DeerNose bedroom. Remi hung upside down on the bed, grinning, while I hammered on the door, spending more voice time on "unfair treatment of women" and "unethical use of brute force."

  "Baby girl." Boomer Spayberry had taken a position on the other side of the door. Probably relaxed in a chair with a gun on his lap while thumbing through his phone. "Nash said some attention you received today could land you in legal trouble and serious harm. It'd be for your own benefit to stay home while he's out of town."

  "Daddy, this is the twenty-first century. You're acting like it's the Wild West or something. Not that I've ever done a western—”

  I stopped myself from breaking rule one. Then realized I had started applying Nash's rules to my family. "This is ridiculous. Nash thinks he's protecting me when all he's done is shown this person I wasn't able to prevent Nash from dropping the case. They're still going to want to—”

  I shut up before the words "kill me" fell on Boomer's ears. Not that Daddy was listening.

  "You've been in the news too much, girl. If Nash wants to do some undercover work out of town, he doesn't need your baggage tagging along. He knows those reporters won't cross my property line. I've threatened them with lead in their backside."

  I leaned against the door. Nash knew the DeerNose cabin's security system. He had let Boomer think I needed to be protected from paparazzi to protect me from my attacker.

  A chair scraped against the pine floors. "I'm headed back to DeerNose HQ, but I told Carol Lynn you're to stay here until I give the say-so. She agrees you need a break from the press, too. And to make you feel better, she's fixing y'all chicken and dumplings for lunch."

  "I hate chicken and dumplin's." Remi flipped backward off the bed and slid underneath.

  "And Remi. You will eat your momma's food. If I hear you've fed those damn dogs your lunch again, I'm going to tan your backside."

  Boomer's boots clunked down the hall. A few seconds later, a door banged.

  Remi poked her head out. "I'm getting out of here. You coming?"

  "You're running from lunch? How can anyone not like chicken and dumplings?" I said the words before the implication hit me. "What do you mean you're getting out? The house is alarmed. Isn't it?"

  Remi scrunched her nose. "I know a way out. No cameras neither."

  I gaped. If I was going to defy a killer, I didn't want to hide in my father's house. If Remi could get out, a killer could get in. I was putting my family in danger.

  And that was something Julia Pinkerton would never do.

  Nor Maizie Albright.

  "Remi, if I can get you out of lunch, will you promise to keep the alarm on and not leave the house?"

  Remi hopped to her feet. “How're you going to get me out of lunch?"

  "I learned a thing or two when I didn't feel like studying with my tutor."

  She cocked her head.

  "It's like homeschool for actors. I also need you to show me how to sneak out."

  "Are you taking me with y'all?"

  "Absolutely not. I need you to stay in the cabin." I fisted my hands on my hips. "But I'm going to teach you how to heat a thermometer. If you're sick, you can lay in bed and not eat your lunch. How about that?"

  She narrowed her eyes. "I also want a Happy Meal."

  "I don't have time to get you a—” I shrugged. "Fine. I, of all people, understand forbidden fruit. You're crazy to want a Happy Meal over Carol Lynn's cooking, but I get it."

  "No fruit. I want French fri
es." She spat on her palm and held out her hand. "Shake on it, sister."

  Remi was as good as her spit-slimed palm. Thirty seconds later I had talked (begged) the LA HAIR girls into borrowing a car. Remi showed me her route for sneaking out of the cabin and I made a mental note to add an alarm to the doggy door.

  I walked Lucky to the road and made a big production of driving away to lure my stalker from the Spayberry cabin. I drove to McDonald's, returned to the cabin to sneak Remi her Happy Meal, and made a bigger production of driving away before heading to LA HAIR.

  I couldn't tell if my stalker still stalked, but the Albright van caught on pretty quick.

  Inside LA HAIR, Rhonda and Tiffany stood before the reception desk, purses strapped to their fronts. One quilted paisley and big enough to hide a rocket launcher. The other a combination of faux fur, studs, and leather fringe. Also big enough to carry a substantial weapon. Knowing Tiffany, she probably did. They also had roll-on suitcases. Pink zebra stripes. Black with a torn pocket and missing a wheel.

  I eyed the suitcases and purses, then the women. Rhonda's sausage curls had been replaced by an up-do that looked like a giant donut. Tiffany's blue ombre shag hadn't changed, but her eyeliner appeared fresh and plentiful.

  "Are you girls going somewhere?" I asked.

  "Road trip," Rhonda squealed. She rushed forward to hug me and bounced us in a circle. "I'm so excited. I love Savannah."

  "Wait a minute." I disentangled myself from Rhonda. "I'm not taking you to Savannah. I just need to borrow a car."

  "I'm not letting you drive my Firebird to Savannah.” Tiffany reached inside her faux fur and leather trimmed missile silo and looped a key holder around her wrist. Plastic cards, charms, and a pink-jeweled pepper spray mister rattled against her arm. "Besides, we want to watch when you tell that detective to go to hell."

  "I'm not even sure if it's a good idea to chase after Nash to Savannah. I know it's not a good idea to take you two. I don't want to put you in danger."

  Tiffany cocked a brow.

  "David Waverly is dead."

  Grabbing her black roll-on, Tiffany grabbed my arm and walked us to the back door. "Now I know you need us. I thought it was bad, but shit's really going to hit the fan now."