by Maisie Dean
Once Doyle was out of earshot, Harrison shook his head.
“Doyle never learns. He’s always looking for the shortcut, a scheme to get rich quick, rather than work at it. It always comes back to bite him like this,” Harrison said.
“I don’t think you’re being fair,” Lucky disagreed. “The world needs more people like Doyle. People who’ve got big ideas and plans, and more importantly, the guts to try things out.”
Owen, who’d had his eyes glued to his phone screen the last few minutes, rejoined the table.
“Good Time Grill’s menu looks interesting, but I won’t eat there until it has built up an acceptable number of online reviews,” Owen said. We all laughed.
“What do you think, Kacey?” Harrison asked.
The three Booker brothers turned their attention toward me, their faces open and expectant. It wasn’t clear if there were asking what I thought about Doyle’s diner scheme, or working at the agency, or what it was like to try and get by in Los Angeles. Perhaps they were asking about all of it, wanting to get to know me, Kacey, the newest member of the team. Suddenly I felt an expansion in my chest, a bursting desire to confess to what I know I should have told them from the start, about my history and my resume.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Doyle returning with burger-laden trays and my nerve dissipated. I didn’t have to tell them yet, right? Surely it could wait until after we’d eaten dinner.
“I think that I’m excited to dig into this delicious dinner,” I said brightly.
The four of us dug into our heaping plates of hot burgers and fries, deep-fried pickles, onion rings, and whatever “cabbage-free coleslaw” was.
I felt warm, full, and content, and I knew that Doyle’s food only contributed to half of it. Okay, maybe slightly more than half.
* * *
Stunt Double Trouble
A Booker Brothers Detective Agency Mystery
Maisie Dean
| FIRST EDITION |
CHAPTER 1
In my job as a private investigator, I don't always get shot at, but when I do, it's usually because I screwed up.
Nobody wants to find themselves in that situation, of course, but it's best to be prepared. If you don't have a bulletproof vest, at least be wearing clean underwear!
Oh, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
The story behind a notorious Booker Brothers case we call Stunt Double Trouble started one Monday morning when I found myself lacking in the clean laundry department.
It was the start of a new week, and time for me to get back to the Booker Brothers Detective Agency for a new case. I just had one tiny little problem. Real life doesn’t come with a fully staffed wardrobe department. This former actress turned detective had nothing to wear.
My second-hand Ikea closet stood open before me, bare as could be. It looked like a department store after a Black Friday sale. There were empty hangers on the floor, a rogue sock peeking out from behind an old shoe box, and a hair tie with strands of hair knotted around it. My wicker laundry basket had long overflowed in its spot tucked behind my bedroom door. The pile of dirty clothes mocked me. Yet again, I had forgotten to do my laundry over the weekend. The tangled mess of blouses and dress pants I would normally wear to work laughed at me. Oh, wait. It was Rosie, my roommate who was laughing.
Rosie stood in my doorway. She looked comfortable with her uniform, a pair of coveralls, pulled on over her usual athletic leggings and T-shirt. She had it so easy. Not the delivery-driver part of her job, but the clothing, anyway.
As if she was able to read my thoughts, Rosie held up a finger and widened her eyes, mocking me.
“Hey, I did my laundry,” Rosie said, leaning casually against the doorframe. “We adults do that kind of thing.” She glanced over the rumpled piles. “Do you have any clean options?”
I groaned. “Two options. Bad and worse.”
The two outfits hung sullenly in my wardrobe. On the left was a tan suit I had completely forgotten about until today. The tacky old thing was the first suit I’d bought when I’d arrived in LA. I’d found it at a thrift store, and bought it exclusively for job interviews. It hadn’t been flattering then, but it was even less flattering now.
Since the day I’d plucked the suit from the bargain racks, my skin tone had changed. Thanks to the steady California sunshine, my skin was now the exact same shade of tan as the suit. I didn’t know everything about fashion, but wearing a skin-colored outfit had to be a fashion don’t. Also, the cut was dowdy to the extreme.
Hanging on the right was an outfit from the other end of the spectrum. It was one of those dirndl dresses women in Bavaria wear to Oktoberfest. It was colorful and fun, with a tight corset top and swishy skirt, all frilly folds of pink and green. The colors flattered my skin tone, but there was no denying the fact that it was a Halloween costume.
“Let’s see what all the groaning is about,” Rosie said. She walked past me and jumped onto my unmade bed.
I stepped aside to give her my dismal view of the closet. I clutched my white bed sheet around my body while Rosie gazed at the closet’s meagre offerings. She let out a long whistle.
“You really are in trouble,” she said.
“What about the Oktoberfest dress?” I held up my hand to block off my roommate’s view of the upper part of the dress. “I could cover the corset with your green sweater,” I said hopefully. “I can borrow your green sweater, right?”
Rosie cringed. “Feel free to borrow it but…” She screwed up her face in a pucker and shook her head. “Then again, don’t. I’m sorry, but you look like a homeless person whenever you wear my clothes.”
Rosie was taller than me by a few inches and broader across the shoulders. She had bright blue eyes and light blonde hair that she liked to tell people was natural, but I knew better. Although Rosie was relatively thin, she rarely wore form-fitting clothes besides the athletic wear under her courier uniform. She was gorgeous, model-worthy even, but I’d never had the sense she was fully comfortable in her body.
We had a difficult time sharing clothes that weren’t scarves or hats. Not to mention that Rosie’s closet consisted mainly of athletic wear. As comfortable as yoga pants were, they were not suitable for the Booker Brothers office.
“The suit, then?” I grabbed the dowdy tan suit off the hanger and held it up against my chest.
Rosie made the same screwed-up face, as if she’d eaten a lemon. Or oregano. Rosie hated oregano.
The suit’s boxy shape and cheap fabric made me inclined to agree with Rosie, but time was ticking. I had to face the fact that my laundry-lazy self could not be picky. Tan suit it was! At least it was office-appropriate. It was better than bringing Oktoberfest to the office on a Monday morning. I threw the two-piece combo in the direction of my bed. It landed on Rosie’s lap.
She yanked her hands back, recoiling in horror. “Yuck!” She pushed the suit away from her, making disgusted noises. She buried her hands in my bedspread as if to force the tactile memory from her fingertips.
I rolled my eyes and scoured the nooks and crannies of my drawer for underwear and a decent bra. It was hard to scavenge for undergarments while holding up the bed sheet I was wearing instead of a housecoat.
Rosie continued to make dramatic noises about the tan suit.
“Come on,” I said. “It’s not that bad.”
“You know, I kind of dig the look you’ve got right now.” She waved up and down my sheeted body. “Very toga party. That could fly in the office, couldn’t it?”
I ignored Rosie’s question and dragged the twisted sheet around with me as I searched all the usual places for underwear. I found a sports bra which would have to do, but I had zero clean underwear.
“Underwear,” I muttered. “Does the best roommate anyone could ever have happen to have a spare pair of clean underwear?” I held my hands in prayer position and dropped to my knees in front of Rosie on my bed. We’d shared underwear in a pinch many times before, although it was
never comfortable for either of us. Rosie had wider hips than me, which meant her underwear gaped on me awkwardly and often slouched down too low beneath my pants. No one else could tell, but it would be on my mind all day.
Rosie cleared her throat and glanced around sheepishly. “For all my talk, I actually ran out of underwear, too. These are my last pair.” She smacked her hip.
I tossed my head back and let out a long sigh.
“Then I guess it’s a bathing suit day,” I said with grim determination.
I located my deep-purple bikini bottoms and tugged them on under my sheet. They smelled faintly of chlorine from the swimming pool.
My roommate chuckled as I hopped around on one foot.
“Why does this feel so familiar?” I wondered aloud to Rosie. “My two choices were dowdy old lady suit versus beer wench.”
“And that’s familiar to you?”
“Sort of. It always feels like we women have to choose between projecting the image of a boring good girl or an interesting bad girl. What about the middle ground? It’s always about picking either something unobtrusive, unflattering, and uncomfortable, or something that is just... too much. Too feminine. In a bad way.”
Rosie’s brow creased delicately as she asked, “You mean archetypes? Madonna versus Whore? The Spinster versus the Stripper?”
“Exactly. Either a girl is no fun at all, or she’s the wrong kind of fun. You can’t win.”
Rosie snorted. “You know, you could just do your laundry.” She struggled to keep a straight face. “It’s not society’s fault you’re lazy about throwing your clothes into a washing machine.”
“I’m serious,” I said, trying to keep the corners of my mouth from turning up.
“I know, I know. I definitely get you,” Rosie replied. “On the days I can’t figure out what to wear, it’s because I want to look good, but not too good. We girls want to get attention, but not the wrong kind. And, of course, we can never look like we’re trying to get any.”
“Men have it so easy.”
“You think? Isn’t there some equivalent conundrum for men?”
I thought about it while I tugged on the tan suit pants. The material was scratchy and uncomfortable. I thanked myself for putting off shaving my legs. I would need the extra barrier of leg hair stubble to fight off the scratchy fibers.
Did men have the same fashion dilemmas as women?
I gave it some thought and answered, “They might have to choose between the archetypes of Bad Boy versus Good Daddy.” I gave a shrug. “Maybe men don’t have it easier.”
Rosie didn’t look satisfied with my answer. She wrinkled her nose. “I’ve never heard men complain about looking too sexy.”
“Or about their high heels being uncomfortable.”
“True,” Rosie said. “But I don’t think they’re forced to choose between two options. And neither do we women. There are a million degrees in between on both sides. Just think of the Bookers.” Rosie sat up straight on my bed. “They’re all a mix of Bad Boy and Good Daddy.”
“I can’t lie. They are all certainly appealing in their own unique ways.” I found a white blouse that could pass for clean, pulled it on, and slid the tan jacket over the top. “Some days, when I spend time with each of them over the course of a case, I almost feel like I’m dating all three of them.” I quickly added, “In an old-fashioned, very chaste way.”
Rosie slapped her knee. “I totally live with the Booker Brother Bachelorette!” she exclaimed. “It’s like a reality TV show.” She threw her hands in the air and shimmied her torso around.
“Oh, shush.”
Rosie lowered her voice and spoke in a gameshow-like tone. “Who will Kacey Chance choose? Will it be Owen Booker, the soft-spoken, intelligent knight in shining armor? Or Lucky Booker, the charismatic, handsome rebel? Or, last but not least, Harrison Booker, the dignified, steady, and capable brother—”
“Rosie, there’s no way.” I put my hands on my hips. “You know Tippy would have me murdered if I put my hands on any one of her boys. And, knowing how resourceful she is, I bet she’d get away with my murder. If I ever go missing under mysterious circumstances, it’s up to you to avenge me.”
Rosie rolled her eyes and slid off my bed. “Still, you are one lucky lady.” She headed for my bedroom door.
“I’d be happy to trade places with you any time you like,” I called after her.
“No, thank you.” She paused in my doorway to shudder dramatically. “You’re always getting into dangerous situations, thanks to those cases.” She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m happy to ogle those brothers from a safe distance.”
“Ogle away. There is no ogling coming from me. No way.” I adjusted my collar, pressing it between my fingertips and pulling to improve the semi-straight line.
“Sure, Kacey. Whatever you say.” Rosie disappeared down the hallway to the kitchen.
I gave the cute Oktoberfest dress one last look before I shut the closet door and followed Rosie to the kitchen in search of tea.
***
As I pushed through the door of the Booker Brothers Detective Agency, my ugly brown suit scratched me in protest.
Someone snorted.
It was Lucky Booker.
I was surprised that he’d arrived before me. The office was quiet. He’d arrived before everyone else, too.
“Good morning, Chance,” he said. “Laundry day?”
“Morning,” I replied, ignoring his question about laundry day. I held my head high and ignored the itchiness under my arms and between my thighs as I walked to my desk. I’d learned that ignoring some of Lucky’s questions was the best protocol. Especially first thing in the morning.
Lucky leaned forward in his chair with his elbows resting on his desk. His gaze drifted up and down my outfit. He gave me one of his charming smiles, one cute dimple appearing on his left cheek. His mess of golden and nut-brown hair was pushed back with a light gel of some sort. His hazel eyes were full of light and amusement. His Hawaiian shirt was a blue and coral floral pattern with a smattering of green palm fronds. The sleeves were folded to make crisp cuffs over his biceps. Lucky was reliably fresh and put-together, but as far as workplace fashion he’d do it his own way or no way at all.
I settled in at my desk. When I had first started at the Detective Agency I’d been at the front desk by the door. But after assisting in a number of cases, the Booker brothers had agreed that I was clearly more than a receptionist in the office and deserved a desk that said so. My new desk was actually smaller than my original one. But I was close to the copier and close to Owen, the youngest Booker brother, who could answer any question you threw at him. As long as it didn’t have anything to do with the more standard ins and outs of social interactions and behaviors. He usually had to Google those first.
I set my purse and to-go mug on my desk and took a seat. Lucky’s desk was on the opposite side of the room facing mine, and positioned slightly diagonally to my right. I tried to keep my face straight as I sat sound on my chair and enjoyed the feeling of the awful suit clawing at all of my most sensitive skin, not to mention the tightness of my bikini beneath my waistband. Lucky’s grin remained and his eyebrow edged upwards as he watched me settle in at my desk.
“It’s actually fortuitous you chose that suit today,” Lucky said. “The cheap polyester won’t wrinkle while you’re on assignment today.”
“What’s the assignment?”
“Stalking someone,” Lucky said mischievously.
“Stalking? I’m not going to stalk anyone. You must mean a stakeout.”
CHAPTER 2
Lucky crossed his arms and sat back in his chair.
“Okay, a stakeout then,” he said through a smirk. There was a dark red folder open on his desk and his attention was split between me and thumbing through its contents.
“I can do a stakeout.”
“We’ll have to use your car,” he said. “Mine’s in the shop.”
“Sure, but I
’m driving.”
“You’re all caught up on paperwork aren’t you?”
“It’s done, finally,” I said.
I booted up the old desktop computer on my desk out of habit, but secretly I was hoping I wouldn’t have to use it at all today. All of last week my fingers had been cramped from typing. I’d finally been able to let them rest over the weekend. I’d even used the voice feature on my phone to send messages without typing them out. I did not want to have them get that bad again this week. I had to get out and start pounding the pavement to solve a case. I’d spent the previous week making my way through the stacks of paperwork from our last case. By some incredible chain of events Lucky had managed to “steal” a cat while out investigating, or so its owner told the police. According to Lucky, unbeknownst to him there had been a forgotten fish-oil vitamin capsule in his pocket and the cat had followed Lucky as he traipsed all over the city on foot. He only noticed when the cat, Flossy, had climbed into his car. And dealing with paperwork on that ordeal had only been the start of it. Today, however, was a new day and a new case.
“What’s the case?” I asked.
“Another insurance audit,” Lucky said. He took a sip from his coffee mug and pushed a couple documents around in the file laid out in front of him.
My shoulders slumped. Insurance cases often had a tendency to be dull as dishwater, and rather than focus our efforts on investigating and solving crime, the Booker brothers and I would have to act as intermediaries while the parties involved pointed their fingers at each other. I’d been foolish for thinking I might get through this week without a mountain of paperwork.
“What do we know?” I asked. “Anything interesting with this one?”
Lucky opened his mouth to reply but before he had the chance Tippy opened the door and strode into the office. The rattling old bell above the doorway announced her arrival.
Tippy Booker was a formidable and elegant woman. Her expertly dyed blonde hair, cropped above her shoulders, was professionally blown out as usual. Her clear green eyes were rimmed with a thin line of black eyeliner. The coral shade of her lipstick tied the whole look together. Tippy wore a dark blue satin blouse with a squared neckline, and a necklace with one tiny diamond that fell evenly between her collarbones. Wide-leg black pants nearly covered her open-toe heels. Despite working for the Bookers for some time now, I hadn’t been able to shake the nervous feeling that came over me whenever she popped into the office. She only came by for the coffee, or so she said. According to her grandsons, though, Tippy hadn’t warmed to the concept of leisure in her retirement. Swinging by the office allowed her some control and oversight of the family business.