This is what happens when you deny your feelings. Awkward patting.
As for me, I grinned like an idiot, indulging in the slight touch of the awkward pat.
"You look…like you've had a long day," said Nash. "I wish I'd been here to help."
I smiled, knowing my clothes and face were mud-splattered, paint stained my hands, and my chapped skin had turned red. But at least I smelled like candy canes.
After quick introductions and an even quicker assessment of the situation, he glanced at me. "Miss Albright, we need to talk."
"Y'all can use the guest bedroom for privacy," said Casey. "Mind the mess from the shotgun blast."
Nash's eyebrows lifted. Without remarking, he followed me to the bedroom. Seeing the blast hole, he crossed the room, examined the gash, then set an eyeball to it. Rising, he turned toward me. "Did you have anything to do with this hole?"
"That was Casey. The pregnant sister. She shot through the wall. But Jay shot at me first."
He took two steps to cross the room. Grabbing my shoulders, he lifted me slightly. Catching himself, he dropped his hands. "Maizie. Miss Albright."
"He was going to shoot Casey. I had to do something."
"And what did you do?" His cool blue eyes burned through me.
"Stabbed him with a candy cane and tied him up."
"With tree lights?"
"It was all I had."
"The police."
"Came, left, and did nothing."
"They had their hands full."
"We had bank robbers, too. And to think, Krystal's grandma is the one who sent us here." I chewed my thumbnail, fighting tears again. "Nash, Jay blames Mrs. Fowler for Krystal's crimes. Krystal drove the getaway car and willingly left a deputy to freeze to death in her trunk. Attacked her great aunt to use her home for a safe house. Then tied up her, an elderly woman, and the neighbor girl sick with the flu, and left them in Martha Mae's bathroom."
"Are you sure it was Krystal and not Jim Riley who did all that?"
"He's not much better. Planned on helping her to get rid of the evidence. I don't think he wanted to kill anyone, but he would have to protect his daughter."
"Jim Riley specifically said Mrs. Fowler directed this?"
"He said he told Krystal to 'stay away from her.' And said she could talk her way in and out of situations better than Krystal. What kind of grandma encourages behavior like bank robbing?"
"Mrs. Fowler checks out. Krystal's mother, however, did not. There's good reason to believe she's one of the culprits who robbed the bank. Evidently, they split up after the sheriff arranged their escape. I hope they caught them.”
"Not the grandmother?" I swallowed hard. "Celia's a good grandma? Her house was full of unwrapped products. I thought they were stolen."
"Just a home shopping nut." Nash grinned. "She'll probably want to bake you cookies. Once she gets over the fact that her granddaughter's a felon."
I squeezed my eyes shut, imagining myself bringing Christmas cookies to Mrs. Fowler. Cookies and gumdrops. Remi would like her, too. She could tell us stories about her bank-robbing husband and con-artist daughter and granddaughter.
Maybe I shouldn't share my adopted grandmother with Remi. She had Carol Lynn's mother, after all.
"You were right," I sighed. "Krystal wasn't a nun. I hoped she'd turn out differently. I didn’t get Mrs. Fowler’s granddaughter back to her.”
"Aw, kid." Nash let out a big breath. "I don't like that about myself. It's better that you see the good in people first before you suspect the bad. By the way, you did find the granddaughter. And saved several grandmothers from her in the process.”
"I kept trying to call you." Tears welled. I pinched the skin on my thumb, knowing good investigators don't cry. Particularly when they're no longer in danger. Except for my toes. Still numb. They were going to take a while to recover. "You said you'd always answer."
"I'm sorry, kid. Bad reception. I drove through the storm. But I'm here." He held out his arms and dropped them. Again. "I told you to just watch the house. Go to a motel."
"I couldn't." I sniffled. "Not knowing these people were in danger."
"That's why I had to come. And got here too late." He rubbed his jaw. Paced a small circle three times. Then stopped in front of me. "Dammit. Come here, Maizie."
I fell into his arms. Pressed my head against his shoulder. The leather felt cold and hard. Unzipped his bomber jacket and burrowed against his warm, firm chest. And cried.
Nash stroked my back. Ran his hands through my hair. Then caught my chin in his palm. Gently, he raised my face, meeting my gaze with his. "Please don't cry, Maizie. You're safe. They're safe. That's all that matters."
"Also, I'm finally warm," I whispered. "Thank you."
"Merry Christmas." Nash kissed the tip of my nose. "Let's get you home to Remi. In the morning, we'll follow the salt truck trail home. You've done enough here."
"Nash," I spoke drowsily. "What did you want to do tomorrow? On Christmas Eve?"
"This." Cupping my face between his two large palms, he brushed his lips against mine. "Merry Christmas, Maizie."
Christmas wishes do come true. Thank you, Hallmark Channel angels.
The End.
If you enjoyed A View to a Chill, would you take a minute to review it? It would mean so much to me, to other readers, and it really helps the life of a book series. Thank you so much! Just click here.
Thank You Reader
When Abby Vandiver first asked me to contribute a story for a Christmas anthology, I didn’t hesitate. I loved that we were creating a book box set not only for our readers, but also for charity. This was my third anthology and I always enjoyed working on a team with other writers. Collaboration is rewarding in so many ways, particularly because writing is such a lonesome activity. I enjoyed getting to know all the 12 Slays of Christmas writers, Abby especially.
I hope you enjoyed Cherry and Maizie’s Christmas adventure! If you haven’t read Cherry Tucker previously, this novella lands somewhere after book six. For Maizie, it’s more vague, but let’s call it 2.5. :) Read on for previews in the Maizie Albright Star Detective and the Cherry Tucker Mystery series.
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Larissa
Acknowledgments
Ritter Ames, you’re an incredible editor, book guru, and a great friend. Thank you for all the help and support.
Terri L Austin for being such an awesome critique partner and friend.
Abby Vandiver for all your hard work and effort in organizing and leading The 12 Slays of Christmas. Herding cats is a thankless job. You were an amazing cat herder and a lovely person.
Dru Ann Love for your continued support, encouragement, and all the great things you do for mystery writers in general. Plus for being such a sweet friend.
The Mystery Minions, know that I’m thinking about y’all while I’m writing. Thank you so much for your incredible support and friendship! Special thanks to Risa Rispoli, Susan Ray, Mina Gerhart, and Linda Burns for their medical knowledge.
And thanks to Celia Fowler, who is a wonderful woman a
nd not married to a bank robber. Nor does she have any felons in her family. That I know of.
And to my Rockin’ Review Team! You are such a huge help in each of my releases. Thanks so much for all your support.
This first appeared in THE 12 SLAYS OF CHRISTMAS in December 2017 with stories by Abby L Vandiver, Judith Lucci, Amy Vansant, Colleen Mooney, Amy Reade, Nell Goddin, Colleen Helme, Kim Hunt Harris, Cindy Bell, Summer Prescott, and Kathryn Dionne. A fantastic group of cozy writers and women in their own right, it was my privilege to work with them. Thank you!
And to my home posse—Trey, So, Lu, Biz—thanks for always having my six. xoxo
A Sneak Peek of 15 Minutes
#10Days #FindTheWoman #GetTheJob #DoNOTFallinLove
"Child star and hilarious hot mess Maizie Albright trades Hollywood for the backwoods of Georgia and pure delight ensues. Maizie’s my new favorite escape from reality.”
— Gretchen Archer, USA Today bestselling author of the Davis Way Crime Caper series
#WannaBeDetective When ex-teen star Maizie Albright returns to her Southern hometown of Black Pine, Georgia, she hoped to rid herself of Hollywood tabloid and reality show hell for a new career as a private investigator. Instead, Hollyweird follows her home. Maizie’s costar crushing, but now for her gumshoe boss. Her stage-monster mother still demands screen time. Her latest rival wants her kicked off the set, preferably back to a California prison.
By entangling herself in a missing person's case, she must reprise her most famous role. The job will demand a performance of a lifetime. But this time, the stakes are real and may prove deadly.
ONE
#DonutDilemna #B-lister
Of course, Nash Security Solutions would be housed in a donut shop.
Time and the elements had nearly scrubbed the painted Dixie Kreme ad from the side of the old brick building and I’d almost missed it. But with my Jag’s top down, the confectioned-carb aroma assaulted my senses. I pulled in a long, exhilarating breath, then pretended I couldn’t taste that sweet mouthful of heaven.
My trainer, Jerry, would have accused me of manifesting donut reality through my sheer love of trans-fats. After all my years in LA, delectables like donuts should cause my brain to flash a warning with a similar intensity to the bright red neon “Fresh & Hot” sign hanging in this storefront window. However, my brain’s warning was more of an appetizing apple red. As in Snow White’s “One bite and all your dreams will come true” red.
My therapist has an opinion on that subject, something about denied sugar, both literal and metaphorical. Either way, donuts meant trouble.
I almost buckled to temptation. But I had a mission. I sucked down another mouthful of donut air, placed one Jimmy Choo in front of the other and moved through the front door of the Dixie Kreme Donut building. Then into a dim hall, up the stairs and into a dimmer hall. And stopped before the door with the words "Nash Security Solutions" painted on the frosted glass.
Not a modern glass door that swished when opened. An old wooden door. The whole building had that old-timey feel with the brass knobs and wood and the plaster-over-brick walls. Even the building’s front door had a half moon, stained glass window. Those adorable antiquing couples in Pasadena would have loved the Dixie Kreme building.
For a long minute, I stood before that door inhaling eau de donut and evaluating my wardrobe choices. I wanted to look appropriate. This was my big break. Like a screen test, but better. My stylist might not have agreed on pairing the Jimmy Choos with a white, sleeveless Nina Ricci resort dress and my Chloé Clare bag. Sometimes my stylist went a little overboard. She would have gone with Louboutins and a Birkin. Keeping Up with the Kardashians and whatnot. Literally.
But this was Black Pine, Georgia, where Loubies and Birkins weren’t fundamental. I grabbed the old-timey, brass knob of the Nash Security door and strode through with a "go get 'er" set to my features, ripping off my Barton Perreira Jet-Setters and shoving them into my bag like I was on an episode of Miami Undercover.
"Mr. Nash," I said with great authority. And then dropped my bag. Forgot to close my mouth. And I might have gasped.
From Miami Undercover to I Love Lucy.
Nash Security Solutions consisted of two rooms. The outer room had a battered corduroy recliner, a few metal file cabinets, and a frumpy couch. In this room, all was well, although run down and dusty. Unfortunately, the door to the second room stood open. I was unaware of the condition of that room because Mr. Nash of Nash Security Solutions was naked.
Well, not naked-naked. Half-naked. But he was a big guy. As in tall, solid wall of muscle. Movie star muscle. Like Mr. Nash had a personal trainer who specialized in tone and definition.
Except this was Black Pine, and I doubted Mr. Nash had ever hired a trainer to watch him sweat while screaming about the evils of trans-fats and the virtues of chili pepper colonics. Mr. Nash didn't look the type to put up with anyone yelling at him about anything.
He did seem a little slow, though. At my authoritative "Mr. Nash," he froze. With a t-shirt in one hand. And unbuckled jeans. Giving me time to peel my ogle off all those muscles and the undone buckle and peruse his facial features. His head was shaved and his nose looked broken. A wicked scar curled from his chin to chiseled jaw.
But most astonishing, Mr. Nash’s eyes were Paul Newman blue. Startling, intense, arctic blue.
He countered my ogle for a few long seconds, taking in my hidden curves, the reddish-blonde hair, sea glass green eyes, and a nice pair of legs. I get a lot of ogling. Vicki trained me to take ogles as a compliment. Should it bother me? Ask my therapist. She's got plenty to say on the subject, too.
Behind me, I heard the door open and close while Mr. Nash and I continued our stare-off.
"Didn't know you gave peep shows this early, Nash," said a deep, gravelly voice.
I jerked my eyes off the hard body and onto the older, African-American man dropping into the recliner. He wore a chef's apron over his t-shirt and jeans and smelled of donuts.
"Oh my God. I'm sorry," I said to all listening and glanced into the inner office where Mr. Nash fumbled with his belt buckle.
"Why should you be sorry?" said the man, throwing the lever on the recliner to prop up his feet. "Nash's the one raised in a barn."
"Morning, Lamar," drawled Nash, then addressed me. "Excuse me, ma'am. I'm sorry about this. Forgot to shut the door. And you are?"
I relaxed my face, which felt squinchy. My directors hated that look because it made me look constipated rather than astonished. Taking a deep breath, I said, "I'm Maizie Albright. I mean, Maizie Spayberry. Well, it was Spayberry, and I'm thinking about switching back permanently. Although I do like my other name. It has a better ring, which is why my manager changed it."
Nash nodded and focused on buttoning the shirt he’d slipped on, although he revealed a flash of what I like to call "WTH face."
"Spayberry. Which Spayberry?” said Lamar. “There's a ton around here. Unless you mean Boomer Spayberry? Of DeerNose?"
"Yes, sir. Boomer is my father." DeerNose was big among those that shopped at Bass Pro and other hunting outfitters, but I didn't get recognized as a DeerNose daughter much in LA. It produced a feeling of pride and awkwardness. Among hunters, Daddy's considered the Michael Kors of clothing and accessories. He designs scented hunting apparel. The awkwardness comes with the scent. Deer pee. Big with hunters. Not so much with anyone else.
I glanced at Nash, who was now buttoning a white dress shirt over his muscles. An Armani. A bit old, but still sharp.
"I'm sorry, but aren't you expecting me?" I glanced at my watch. "I was told to come at this time."
"Told by who?" Nash paused the buttoning.
"A Jolene Sweeney. I didn't speak to her, my assistant set up the interview. Maybe our wires got crossed?" I raised my brows at the string of curses Mr. Nash uttered. "I'm sorry. Do I have the time wrong?"
Shooting a look of concern at Lamar, Nash pushed past me to flip the lock on the front door.<
br />
"So are you living over at the DeerNose cabin?" Lamar continued. "I heard it's pretty grand. Nice land Boomer's got, too."
"Yes, sir," I said, watching Mr. Nash pace before the locked door. "I haven't been in Black Pine for about six years. As a kid, I spent my summers here. Although I would’ve been better off moving back a long time ago. But you can't change the past. At least that's what Renata says."
"Who's Renata?" asked Lamar.
"Oh, my therapist. The last one." I bit my lip, realizing you shouldn't admit to numerous therapists in an interview. Or what should be an interview. "It's something we do in LA."
"Therapy?" asked Lamar.
"Rehab." Then bit my lip again.
Lamar smiled. He didn't seem to find Nash's pacing at all unnerving. "That's right. Boomer Spayberry's daughter is the TV kid. Maizie Albright. You were on that teen detective show, wasn't it?"
"Yes, sir. Julia Pinkerton: Teen Detective." I grinned. "Before that was Kung Fu Kate. And a few pilots and TV movies. Julia's where my career really took off. And what inspired my new career."
"I don't watch much myself. Nash and I still prefer the radio for the Braves and Bulldogs."
"Because you're too cheap to pay for cable," said Nash.
"Don't need it," said Lamar. "You've got enough equipment, you could probably rig yourself some satellite TV."
"What did Jolene say?" asked Nash.
I looked from Nash to Lamar. He folded his arms behind his head.
"Miss Albright?" Nash's voice grew impatient.
“Me? Like I said, I didn't speak to Jolene. My assistant, Blake, did. Blake's gone now, or I would call her. I had to let all my people go. That was hard."
"The meeting, Miss Albright?"
"I'm sorry. It was about the apprentice position? I need two years training for private investigation and you need—”
A VIEW TO A CHILL Page 14