"Are you just doing research for a new show?" Lamar asked me.
I shook my head and whispered. "I'm done with TV. I really do want to become a private investigator. I've had experience with them in the past. And I loved playing the part of a detective. That's why I majored in Criminal Justice. And then there's Judge Ellis's requirements. I need a job."
Nash gave the door a toothy smile and his cool blue eyes glinted. "Jolene, I will hire whoever the hell I want. This is still my business." He turned around and beamed the wicked blues on me. "You're hired."
Behind the door, Jolene hammered and swore.
"You're making my new assistant blush, Jolene."
"Please, Wyatt. If Maizie Albright shows up, don't offend her. Lord knows we could use the PR."
"When did I ever seem the type to let some TV personality follow me around? Now leave before I call the police and get myself removed from your presence."
"Go to hell," said Jolene.
"Probably," said Nash. "But later. I'm a little busy at the moment."
The door thudded and shook as if someone kicked it. Heels clicked down the hallway.
“Dammit." Nash punched the file cabinet. The bottom drawer slid open, revealing a mess of electrical cords. He kicked the drawer shut. "The Black Pine Group?"
I backed farther into the inner office, my hand on the doorknob. "What's going on here?"
"Do you know how to do billing?" asked Lamar. "Accounts receivable and payable? How to file receipts? What about surveillance? Due diligence research? Any experience there?"
"You're not really hired," said Nash. "I don't need an assistant."
"You can't live on spite, Nash," said Lamar. "I know for a fact your billings are a mess. You've probably got people who owe you money and you don't have time to chase them down."
"If I needed an assistant, I would have hired one myself."
"We've all needed someone to give us a break at one time or another," said Lamar. "And need I remind you, who gave you yours?"
"Who?" I said.
"None of your business," said Nash.
"Boomer Spayberry," said Lamar. "When Nash was setting up his office and struggling to make it a go, Boomer hired him to evaluate and recommend the security at DeerNose. Huge job. And it's not like Boomer wouldn't have gotten bids from bigger firms to get the best price."
"True," I said. "Daddy never met a dollar he liked to spend needlessly."
"I wasn't a charity case," said Nash.
"No," said Lamar, "but without a recommendation from someone like Boomer Spayberry, you would have struggled to keep your business from going belly-up. I don't need to remind you what was going on at that point in your life."
"No, you don't," said Nash. "And I rather you keep it to yourself."
"Am I hired?" I squealed. "You don't know how relieved I am. Judge Ellis said I had ten days after reaching Black Pine to secure a job. You see—”
"First rule, Miss Albright," said Nash. "I don't want any details about your celebrity lifestyle."
"I don't mind hearing details," said Lamar.
"Do it on your own time." Nash turned back to me. "You're going to have to prove yourself. Because right now I don't see anything worth hiring. This is a serious business."
"Of course," I said. "I'm a quick learner. My directors all said so. Except one, but it was such a B movie, nobody tried very hard. Straight to video, you know. Even the Syfy channel rejected it."
"Do I need to remind you of rule one already, Miss Albright? Now, I've got some appointments to keep. I need to finish changing, so if you don't mind." Nash waved his hand.
"Time to make sure they're making the donuts downstairs." Lamar popped from his chair, grinning. "This is just what you needed, Nash."
"I need this like a hole in the head."
"I'm sure Jolene would love to arrange that for you."
TWO
#WannabeDetective #LALooks
* * *
After Lamar left, I waited in the outer office while Nash finished changing. With the door closed, thankfully. I took to fiddling with my sunglasses and wondering if this decision to apprentice Nash wasn't just a tiny bit rash. I've been known to do rash.
As I considered how to get Mr. Nash to write me a W-4 so I could get a copy to Judge Ellis, Nash's door swung open. A polished businessman in gray Armani slacks and Gucci loafers appeared.
I squinted at the Guccis. Perhaps I had been judging Black Pine fashion by DeerNose gear too long.
Nash glanced at his watch then pointedly at me. "I do have a meeting. So, see you."
I nodded, then realized I was doing it again. Letting other people control the situation. Renata had lectured me on this. Although she mainly meant Vicki.
While I thought of a polite way to ask Mr. Nash to allow me in on a client discussion, a knock sounded on his door again. A normal knock this time.
Nash strode past me to usher in a middle-aged man, wearing khakis and a golf shirt.
The golf shirt insignia said "Black Pine Club.” He also had the paunch, sunburned cheeks, and drawl of the Black Pine moneyed class. Mostly old money, although recently there'd been some new money with a resurgence of interest in the old resort town. A century ago, wealthy Georgians founded Black Pine Mountain Resort to escape the summer heat. During the Depression, muckity-mucks finagled a Works Project to dam a nearby river, thereby giving the mountain retreat waterfront property. From there, Black Pine Lake and Black Pine town emerged.
After the man had back-slapped Nash with a hearty "mornin'," he turned toward me for a quick perusal. "Now who's this ray of sunshine brightening your gloomy office, Nash?"
"David Waverly, this is..." Nash paused. He wasn't sure what to call me.
"I know who this is." David Waverly stepped forward to clasp my hand in his. "Maizie Albright. I heard you were in town. Jolene said you needed to follow Nash to research for a movie. This is a good sign."
"Now David," said Nash. "I don't know what you're talking about. This is Maizie Spayberry. She's just leaving. Come into my office so we can chat."
Waverly continued to pump my hand between his meaty paws. "Miss Maizie, I was a Julia Pinkerton fan. It is such an honor to meet you."
"Thank you," I said, unable pull my hand from his. "That's very nice of you to say."
"It was such a shame when Julia left for college and your sister, Amy, took over the detective business. Just wasn't the same. Why did you leave?"
How do I say, "Between seasons, puberty caught me and ended my career in teen television?" My look had gone from girl-next-door to Playboy centerfold overnight. I had spent my entire last season in Julia's cheer uniform, hugging books or hiding behind furniture to keep family-friendly ratings. Of course, that last season we did have a sudden spike in the middle-aged male demographic. Of which, it seemed, David Waverly was one.
I lifted a shoulder. "That's TV for you."
"How about an autograph?"
"I'll need my hand for that." I smiled and yanked my hand from his.
"Autographs later," said Nash and pointed toward the open office door, gesturing for Waverly to enter. "We need to talk, David."
David Waverly ignored Nash. "I suspect my wife is having an affair."
"That's horrible," I said. "Why do you think that?"
"Sarah's been acting differently. She's quit her volunteer work, which doesn't make us look too good in the community. She denied an affair, of course."
"Do you have children?" I asked. "This will be very hard on your children."
Nash cleared his throat. "David, after a month of surveillance, her schedule is fairly routine. Sarah does go to the club every day. But she's not meeting anyone there. Sometimes she takes the boat out."
David Waverly leaned toward me. "We don't have children. She's not being open with me. She never understood me. I thought I should start collecting evidence to break the pre-nup. Just in case."
"Oh, my."
Nash dropped his hand. "Have
you noticed anything new? Odd items in your home or car? Receipts? Strange credit card charges? Anything else I can investigate? I'm sorry, David, but I'm not seeing it."
"How long have you been married?" I didn't get a good vibe from David Waverly. Nash seemed eager to be rid of him as a client. Which also felt strange.
Nash’s lips firmed, and he gave me a barely perceptible head shake.
I looked back at David Waverly, who counted on his fingers.
"Eleven years?" said David Waverly. "Sarah's number two."
Nash folded his arms. "Mr. Waverly, in these cases, fifty percent of the time a husband is not correct in his assumptions."
"Fifty percent." I turned to David Waverly. "Those are pretty good odds she isn't cheating. You must be happy to hear that."
David Waverly didn't look happy to hear his odds. "I'm sure I'm right. Why don't you see what Miss Albright can find? She's got experience."
"She played a character on TV," said Nash. "That's not experience. The show wasn't even believable."
"You watched Julia Pinkerton?"
Nash snapped a look at me, then addressed David Waverly. “I don’t feel I can help you, David. Continuing with the investigation is a waste of your money and my time."
"I'm disappointed in you, Nash." A sly smile slid from Waverly's thin lips. "Is this about Black Pine Group selling your business? Don't worry about conflict of interest. Sweeney’s handling it."
Nash's ears pinkened and a muscle flexed in his neck. "I'm not interested in selling. You've been talking to the wrong person. I'm dropping your case because I don't believe there is one, and it feels hinky to keep pursuing your wife while she golfs and shops for her lady things."
Maybe it was the mention of his wife's "lady things," but David Waverly's golf tan deepened in color. "I know my wife, and I know something's going on."
"Again, I'm sorry, David."
Waverly turned to me. "You need to help me. I'm sure you understand. Everyone knows what you went through with your husband. Maybe we need fresh eyes on Sarah. A woman's perspective."
"Oliver wasn't my husband. But I do understand feeling blindsided by someone close." I didn't like Waverly using my tabloid fodder for an appeal to make me discredit my almost-boss. But after all, Waverly must know his own wife better than Nash did. "Maybe Mr. Nash would let me practice surveillance on your wife?"
Too late, I saw Nash's clamped lip, bug-eyed head shake.
"How about just for a week?" I said. "And if I don't see anything odd, then you'll agree to let Mr. Nash drop the case?"
Behind Waverly, Nash rolled his eyes.
Waverly bobbed his head, the angry color fading from his cheeks. "Great idea."
"Alrighty," I said. "See you soon."
David Waverly rocked back on his heels. "I certainly hope so. Come out to the club sometime. I'll take you out on my little boat."
I hadn't been gone from Black Pine so long that I didn’t understand the euphemism. Little boats in Black Pine are not little. Just like Black Pine is not a little lake.
"That sounds lovely.” Which is my euphemism for "not a chance in hell."
After a round of goodbyes and a firm closing of the office door, Nash set his blue laser beams upon me. "What in the hell was that? You can't offer your services to one of my clients. There's something hinky going on and you have no business getting involved. You're not even a real assistant. You're some crazy Hollywood detective wannabe. When you realize how dirty and sick this industry really is, you're going to wish you were back on TV."
"I thought maybe I could help you with an awkward situation? And at the same time, get a little field experience?"
"I tell you what's awkward. Having Maizie Albright in my office. It'll make a great bar story, but I wouldn't choose to have you meet someone like David Waverly."
"Why?"
"Look at the way he was slobbering all over you."
"That doesn't bother me, don't let it bother you. It's very gentlemanly of you, though. Thank you for your concern."
"You misunderstand me. I wasn't concerned for you. I'm sure you're used to men slobbering all over you. I couldn't get Waverly to pay attention because you were here. I need to remove myself from that job so I can focus on other assignments. Sarah Waverly is not having an affair."
"I suppose you do have a point there. I'll work on that."
He walked back to his desk and rooted through the folders stacked on his desk.
"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.
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