A VIEW TO A CHILL

by Larissa Reinhart

  "So what's next?"

  "What do you need me for?" Nash yanked on a folder and flipped it open. "Sounds like you're rounding up your own cases."

  "I need to work under a private investigator. Two years, right? You're board certified with the Georgia Association of Professional Private Investigators. And you need office help."

  "Leave GAPPI out of this."

  "I just graduated," I pleaded. "I'm educated, Mr. Nash. I know what I need to do. Now it's training. It's only two years."

  Nash's eyes flicked from the folder to me. "All right. I'll make you a deal. You successfully deliver this summons to the right person and I'll let you follow Sarah Waverly for a week." Then he cracked a smile.

  A brilliant smile. With a dimple. Paired with those gleaming polar eyes, the broken nose and scar seemed to vanish.

  I fell a teensy bit in love. But don't worry. I do that all the time. Hearts are made to be broken and so forth. Besides, I had a dream to fulfill. Maybe a naïve dream, but a dream nevertheless. I was on the road to becoming a real Julia Pinkerton.

  While I was Californicating, Black Pine experienced an explosion of the economic and population variety. Besides the resort, vacation homes and private boat docks had always surrounded the lake. Those servicing the vacationers lived in Black Pine, once a town of about eight thousand. But in the last twenty years, the town had experienced steady growth. Partly in thanks to DeerNose apparel.

  DeerNose had grown. Black Pine had grown. And about the time I got out of my first rehab stint—boom!—Black Pine quadrupled in commerce, population, and tourists. I didn't recognize the town anymore, except for the old square where Wyatt Nash had his donut scented private investigation office. And of course my daddy's land, which he'd protect with his guns and constitutional rights.

  These days, Black Pine Mountain has real subdivisions. Gated. With those little security booths. And you can't throw a rock and not hit a strip mall. We're looking more like LA every day. I even found good sushi. In Black Pine, Georgia.

  I know, right?

  Following Wyatt Nash through town, I passed a Polaris ATV shop and an Audi dealership. A live bait shop and a mega-Cabela's. A parking-lot-smoker-plastic-picnic-tabled barbecue joint next door to a gluten-free-vegan-organic cupcake shop.

  You get the picture.

  Nash's Silverado pickup hung a sharp right into a strip mall and then pulled before a hair salon. La Hair. Or LA Hair. The sign was in all caps, so hard to tell. I parked the Jag next to Wyatt Nash, hopped out of my car, and scrambled to meet him on the sidewalk.

  "You know who we're looking for?"

  "Tiffany Griffen." I shivered. From excitement or nerves, I wasn't sure. I'm supposed to inventory my emotions, but I tend to forget.

  "I'll ask for her first. Give you an idea of what can happen." Turning on the heel of his Gucci loafer, Nash strode through the door of LA HAIR.

  A tinkling bell announced my presence, quickly lost in the pumping rhythm of the top twenty hit playing from the speakers. The layered scent of acetate, ammonia, and Aveda gave me as warm a welcome as the chirping voices coming from the nail and hair stations. Behind a half wall, one stylist had a woman's head covered in foil. A nail girl chatted with a patron. I counted one more beautician, hands full of lather, soaping up a woman leaning back into a sink.

  I smiled, wiggled my fingers, and strolled past the glass and metal shelves displaying hair product and junk jewelry. Leaving on my Jet Setters, I grabbed a People and relaxed into a molded plastic chair to watch Wyatt Nash in action.

  He stood at the desk, waiting for the reception girl to unplug the phone from her ear. Rigid shoulders and stiff posture gave away his aggravation. Either with me or with standing in LA HAIR. Some guys can't relax in a salon. My daddy, for example. Probably hadn't seen the inside of a salon since he divorced my mother. Unfortunately, he could really use a trim. Particularly his beard.

  The reception girl finished her call and gazed up at Nash. "Would you like a cut?"

  "Is Tiffany Griffen working?" asked Nash.

  Five sets of eyes cut toward the manicurist, then to Nash. Everyone except for the woman bent backward over the sink. She had no idea that a hard-bodied giant with Paul Newman eyes stood in the beauty salon. Her stylist continued to massage shampoo into her scalp, her eyes on Nash.

  The nail girl, a thin brunette with a pixie shag ombre dyed in electric blue, shook her head. "She ain't here."

  "That's funny," said Nash. "Because when I called a few minutes ago, I was told Tiffany was working today."

  "Sorry," said the brunette. "You were told wrong."

  "Guess I'll wait until she shows."

  "Guess you might be waiting a while, but suit yourself." The brunette turned back to her client and flipped on a small fan attached to the nail table. "Barb, you let these dry before you take off. I don't want to hear about touch ups."

  With a scowl, Nash stalked to the line of plastic chairs and chose one near the reception desk, five chairs from me. Picking up a magazine from the table next to him, he glanced at it, looked at me, and threw the tabloid back on the table.

  Time for Julia Pinkerton. I tossed the People onto a chair, rose, and strode past Nash to the desk. "I'd like to have my nails done."

  "Mani/pedi?" asked the girl. Her dark, curly hair had been straightened and bobbed, setting off a snub nose, mocha skin, and chocolate eyes. Adorbs. Vicki would have told her to lose forty pounds, but I knew Spanx and the right jeans would have done her well enough without starving off the weight.

  "Just a file and buff, I think." Pulling off my sunglasses, I slid them into my bag and smiled.

  "You're M-m-maizie Albright," the girl stammered.

  "What's your name?"

  "Rhonda." She stuck out her hand and I shook it.

  "Nice to meet you, Rhonda. How are you?"

  In the salon area, the women had leaned forward, watching Rhonda and me. The stylist at the sink pulled a phone from her pocket.

  "Just fine, ma'am." Rhonda still clutched my hand. "How are you?"

  "I'm great, Rhonda. I've moved back home to Black Pine for good."

  "Oh, that's nice," breathed Rhonda. "The locals will leave y'all alone if you want. We've gotten used to some celebrities coming up here."

  "I am glad to hear that, Rhonda. I wasn't happy in Hollywood, you know?"

  "You should hear what my husband calls Hollywood," said the foil lady. "Of course you can't be happy out there. This is your real home. It's right for you to come back to your daddy. We know all about what happened. Y'all ran around with the wrong sort."

  "Would you sign me an autograph?" asked Rhonda. "And can we do a picture?"

  "Sure, Rhonda." I reached over the reception desk, grabbed a pen, and signed my name in big, loopy letters on the schedule book.

  Rhonda held out her phone, and I wrapped an arm around her neck and smiled for a selfie. Probably'd go viral, but I couldn't keep my debut in Black Pine under wraps for long. Besides, I felt bad for what was about to happen.

  Returning Rhonda's phone, I glanced over my shoulder at Nash. He’d crease his Armani shirt if he didn’t stop crossing his arms so tightly. And that scowl would cause crow’s feet. I grinned at him. He looked at his watch.

  "Now," I said, "how about that buff and file?"

  “Yes, ma’am.” Rhonda scurried from behind her desk, grasped my arm, and led me to the nail area.

  Phones clicked photos as we trooped behind the half wall. I oohed and ahhed over the setup, glancing at the framed certificates in each station as I passed. Jenna. Shelly. Ashley. Ashley had a photo stuck to her mirror. Ashley wasn't working today.

  Barb, the tiny woman with the wet nails, popped out of her seat. "I'm all done, Miss Albright." Grasping my hand in two of hers, Barb pumped my arm. "I am glad you have put that horrible business behind you. We here in Black Pine would love to welcome you back. As long as you don't do any of that funny stuff anymore."

  "Thank you, Barb.”


  “Right?” said Rhonda. “They said in Us Weekly, you got a nice judge. He took it easy on you. Gave you probation and rehab and some fines."

  I hated rehashing my former life. But I also hated how the tabloids always got the details wrong. It was a choice between allowing people to think the worst or coming off as defensive. A total lose-lose situation, as Vicki would say.

  "I got lucky with Judge Ellis. And he agreed that moving to Black Pine and starting over was a healthy solution. I had to finish college and the 'minute I graduated' move back home and get a job. I have ten days to turn in a pay stub. Then another year of checking in to see that I stay on my feet."

  "You need to speak to my church, Miss Maizie," said Barb, still pumping my hand.

  "Barb, your nails," said the brunette with the blue ends.

  Barb pulled her hands off mine and waved them in the air. "They're fine. Miss Albright, you go on and have a seat. I'll just sit over at the dryer table."

  I slid into the seat before the brunette and studied the wall over her shoulder. No certificate. Brunette with the blue ombre dye must be Tiffany. When Nash had said her name, they had all shot her a look and Barb had quit talking, at least until I had introduced myself. Simple deduction, just like Julia Pinkerton would have done. My lips curled with excitement.

  Leaning toward Barb, I winked. "I heard this was a good place to get a manicure."

  Tiffany raised her brows. "People like you usually go to the shops over at the lake."

  "Well, maybe I'm different.” I smiled.

  Brunette glanced at my Nina Ricci dress and snorted.

  Ignoring the snort, I extended my fingers over the towel covered bump on her table. "So, Tiffany, how long have you lived in Black Pine?"

  "Long enough."

  Nash hopped to his feet. He clutched an envelope in his big hand.

  I swiveled back to Tiffany. She narrowed her liquid-lined eyes, half stood, and drew an elbow back. I stared at the elbow, realized it was attached to a fist, and caught Tiffany's focused glare as her knuckle slammed into my nose.

  My chair tipped back. My bag flew across the linoleum tiles. The Jimmy Choos shot into the air. And an intense, sharp pain ricocheted through my head.

  I squeezed my eyes shut to the sound of more clicking phones.

  Click here to continue reading 15 Minutes, Maizie Albright Star Detective #1.

  And find my other books, including the Maizie Albright Star Detective series, at my website: http://smarturl.it/larissa

  A Sneak Peek of Portrait of a Dead Guy

  A Cherry Tucker Mystery #1

  In Halo, Georgia, folks know Cherry Tucker as big in mouth, small in stature, and able to sketch a portrait faster than buckshot rips from a ten gauge — but commissions are scarce. So when the well-heeled Branson family wants to memorialize their murdered son in a coffin portrait, Cherry scrambles to win their patronage from her small town rival. As the clock ticks toward the deadline, Cherry faces more trouble than just a controversial subject. Between ex-boyfriends, her flaky family, an illegal gambling ring, and outwitting a killer on a spree, Cherry finds herself painted into a corner she’ll be lucky to survive.

  * Winner of the Dixie Kane Memorial Award * Nominated for the Daphne du Maurier Award and the Emily Award *

  One

  In a small town, there is a thin gray line between personal freedom and public ruin. Everyone knows your business without even trying. Folks act polite all the while remembering every stupid thing you’ve done in your life. Not to mention getting tied to all the dumbass stuff your relations — even those dead or gone — have done. We forgive but don’t forget.

  I thought the name Cherry Tucker carried some respectability as an artist in my hometown of Halo. I actually chose to live in rural Georgia. I could have sought a loft apartment in Atlanta where people appreciate your talent to paint nudes in classical poses, but I like my town and most of the three thousand or so people that live in it. Even though most of Halo wouldn’t know a Picasso from a plate of spaghetti. Still, it’s a nice town full of nice people and a lot cheaper to live in than Atlanta.

  Halo citizens might buy their living room art from the guy who hawks motel overstock in front of the Winn-Dixie, but they also love personalized mementos. Portraits of their kids and their dogs, architectural photos of their homes and gardens, poster“-size photos of their trips to Daytona and Disney World. God bless them. That’s my specialty, portraits. But at this point, I’d paint the side of a barn to make some money. I’m this close from working the night shift at the Waffle House. And if I had to wear one of those starchy, brown uniforms day after day, a little part of my soul would die.

  Actually a big part of my soul would die, because I’d shoot myself first.

  When I heard the highfalutin Bransons wanted to commission a portrait of Dustin, their recently deceased thug son, I hightailed it to Cooper’s Funeral Home. I assumed they hadn’t called me for the commission yet because the shock of Dustin’s murder rendered them senseless. After all, what kind of crazy called for a portrait of their murdered boy? But then, important members of a small community could get away with little eccentricities. I was in no position to judge. I needed the money.

  After Dustin’s death made the paper three days ago, there’d been a lot of teeth sucking and head shaking in town, but no surprise at Dustin’s untimely demise from questionable circumstances. It was going to be that or the State Pen. Dustin had been a criminal in the making for twenty-seven years.

  Not that I’d share my observations with the Bransons. Good customer service is important for starving artists if we want to get over that whole starving thing.

  As if to remind me, my stomach responded with a sound similar to a lawnmower hitting a chunk of wood. Luckily, the metallic knocking in the long-suffering Datsun engine of my pickup drowned out the hunger rumblings of my tummy. My poor truck shuddered into Cooper’s Funeral Home parking lot in a flurry of flaking yellow paint, jerking and gasping in what sounded like a death rattle. However, I needed her to hang on. After a couple big commissions, hopefully the Datsun could go to the big junkyard in the sky. My little yellow workhorse deserved to rest in peace.

  I entered the Victorian monstrosity that is Cooper’s, leaving my portfolio case in the truck. I made a quick scan of the lobby and headed toward the first viewing room on the right. A sizable group of Bransons huddled in a corner. Sporadic groupings of flower arrangements sat around the narrow room, though the viewing didn’t actually start until tomorrow.

  A plump woman in her early fifties, hair colored and highlighted sunshine blonde, spun around in kitten heel mules and pulled me into her considerable soft chest. Wanda Branson, stepmother to the deceased, was a hugger. As a kid, I spent many a Sunday School smothered in Miss Wanda’s loving arms.

  “Cherry!” She rocked me into a deeper hug. “What are you doing here? It’s so nice to see you. You can’t believe how hard these past few days have been for us.”

  Wanda began sobbing. I continued to rock with her, patting her back while I eased my face out of the ample bosom.

  “I’m glad I can help.” The turquoise and salmon print silk top muffled my voice. I extricated myself and patted her arm. “It was a shock to hear about Dustin’s passing. I remember him from high school.”

  I remembered him, all right. I remembered hiding from the already notorious Dustin as a freshman and all through high school. Of course, that’s water under the bridge now, since he’s dead and all.

  “It’s so sweet of you to come.”

  “Now Miss Wanda, why don’t we find you a place to sit? You tell me exactly what you want, and I’ll take notes. How about the lobby? There are some chairs out there. Or outside? It’s a beautiful morning and the fresh air might be nice.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” said Wanda. “Tell you what I want?”

  “For the portrait. Dustin’s portrait.”

  “Is there a problem?” An older gentleman in a golf shirt an
d khaki slacks eyed me while running a hand through his thinning salt and pepper hair. John Branson, locally known as JB, strode to his wife’s side. “You’re Cherry Tucker, Ed Ballard’s granddaughter, right?”

  I nodded, whipping out a business card. He glanced at it and looked me over. I had the feeling JB wasn’t expecting this little bitty girl with flyaway blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes. My local customers find my appearance disappointing. I think they expected me to return from art school looking as if I walked out of 1920s’ bohemian Paris wearing black, slouchy clothes and a ridiculous beret. I like color and a little bling myself. However, I toned it down for this occasion and chose jeans and a soft orange tee with sequins circling the collar.

  “Yes sir,” I said, shaking his hand. “I got here as soon as I could. I’m sorry about Dustin.”

  “Why exactly did you come?” JB spoke calmly but with distaste, as if he held something bitter on his tongue. Probably the idea of me painting his dead son.

  “To do the portrait, of course. I figured the sooner I got here, the sooner I could get started. I am pretty fast. You probably heard about my time in high school as a Six Flags Quick Sketch artist. But time is money, the way I look at it.

  You’ll want your painting sooner than later.”

  “Cherry, honey, I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding.” Wanda looped her arm around JB’s elbow. “JB’s niece Shawna is doing the painting.”

  “Shawna Branson?” I would have keeled over if I hadn’t been at Cooper’s and worried someone might pop me in a coffin. Shawna was a smooth-talking Amazonian poacher who wrestled me for the last piece of cake at a church picnic some fifteen years ago. Although she was three heads taller, my scrappy tenacity and love of sugar helped me win. Shawna marked that day as a challenge to defeat me at every turn. In high school, she stole my leather jacket, slept with my boyfriend, and brown-nosed my teachers. She didn’t even go to my school. And now she was after my commission.